When Life Brings You to Your Knees

I’ve worked hard my entire life to gain and maintain my independence. I’ve learned from personal experience and on multiple occasions that to depend even a little bit on another person or persons, is to forfeit your personal freedom. When someone offers you a gift, you’d better think long and hard before accepting it, since in many (if not most) cases, your acceptance of said gift is the same as signing an invisible waiver to your personal rights—they gave you “X,” so you now owe them; and they can call that loan at any time and for any reason they deem appropriate whether you like it or not.


Does that make me sound cynical? I fear so. At least to some degree. Or perhaps, at the very least, guarded.

As a natural born peace-keeper, my growing up years were spent primarily in that purpose—to say, do, and be all things to all people and, above all else, make sure everyone was happy with me.

However, as a teenager, I began to really think my own thoughts, have my own views, feel my own feelings, and finally come to the realization that to do such was to go directly against my inner keep-people-happy voice. But that voice was becoming tiresome to hear day in and day out, and I finally made the decision to turn it off altogether. I wanted more for my life than was being presented to me—I wanted to be my own person, to stand on my own two feet, and to make my own mark on this world.

So, as soon as I secured my first real job (at Wendy’s) when I was 15 years old, I began religiously saving up my money so as to one day have enough to buy my freedom—my own car, my own phone, my own place to live. The driving force inside of me shifted from people-pleasing to planning my future. I was determined to work as hard as I possibly could in order to make my dreams of independence come true.

I studied hard and worked my own way through community college, adding Arby’s cashier, Senior Companion, Nanny, and Hotel Desk Clerk to my resume while also keeping my GPA up as high as I possibly could. I saved every spare penny for four-year college, because I was going to earn my bachelor’s degree. All my hard work paid off as I graduated with honors in 2010 and transferred to East Carolina University, where I qualified for several merit-based scholarships and grants. I still ended up having to accept a few small subsidized loans, but I was confident that I could even handle that. (I would work as a teacher after graduation and pay those suckers off in two years!)

The day I signed my first lease and moved into University Manor in Greenville was a proud day for me. I had worked hard and had done it—I had earned my independence. I had my own place to live, my own car to drive, my own phone, computer, and college schedule. No one had the right or authority now to tell me how to live my life. And it felt good…very, very good.

Where “normal” people would cringe at the sight of a bill in the mailbox, I felt a tremor of excitement each time I read my printed name through the clear plastic window of the cell phone, internet, electric, and water bills. Each check I wrote out was a fresh reminder of how self-sufficient I had become. I had worked my heart out and now was answerable to no one!

I spent the next two-and-a-half years working my tail off through ECU, planning and paying for my own wedding in the middle of all that (okay, my hubby-to-be met me half way on that part), and then graduating again with honors, with the certainty that my high GPA would go a long way toward helping me find a teaching job. I accepted my first teaching job on my 24^th birthday and taught Kindergarten for the spring semester, then moved to a new city and taught first grade for another year. Each paycheck I received reminded me again of how hard I’d worked, how far I’d come, and how independent I was.

However, toward the end of that school year, the tapestry of my carefully planned life of independence began to slowly unravel and by November of 2014, the entire thing was nothing but a heap of threads at my feet.

Teaching was incredibly stressful. I was up before the sun each day, worked late into the evenings and through the weekends, dealt with overwhelming lists of expectations from supervisors and colleagues, kids and their parents. I worked my tail off simply to meet the minimum level of proficiency at work, while royally failing at the day-to-day tasks of keeping the house clean and keeping me and Kelly fed. Even with Kelly’s constant support and encouragement, my life was spiraling out of control and I felt like I was completely losing my mind. I gained a ridiculous amount of weight, struggled with depression, and finally hit my mental threshold when I had my first panic attack.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a panic attack before, but I can assure you of one thing—they are not fun. I felt as though all of my circuits had overloaded and I was about to explode out of my own skin. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move… it was one of the worst experiences of my life and I knew I couldn’t keep on living like this any longer.

In true independent Jessika fashion, I went out and found a doctor and talked to her about all of my issues. She informed me I needed to eat right, start exercising, and probably talk to a counselor. So, I took her referral and set up my first appointment with the counselor, then went straight home to research healthy meal plans and workout routines. I was going to beat this!

By the middle of the summer, my stress level had reduced immensely. I was eating better and at least making an attempt at semi-regular exercise, and I was learning to manage my mental stress load in my weekly talks with my counselor. At the end of July, I found a personal trainer who started teaching me how to eat and work out in a way that would really meet my body’s needs. This was it! I was back on top. Things were looking up again.

And then the 2014-2015 school year began.

I tried. I really and truly tried. But the first day of school came too soon. My classroom wasn’t ready, my summer to-do list was woefully unchecked, and I had too many boys in my class. I jumped into the year with as much gusto as I could muster, but by September, I was already completely burned out. I talked to Kelly and my counselor, thought and rethought each possibility, then finally submitted my resignation, effective October 31^st.

Teaching wasn’t for me.

I couldn’t do it.

I had failed.

And then the light came flooding back in. On October 2^nd, I took a test that changed my life. I screamed, jumped, shouted, and attacked Kelly with the news. We were going to be parents!  Where I expected to spend the next month in panicked search for a new job, I simply floated through my final weeks of teaching, trying my hardest to keep my mouth shut about my news. Instead of frantically planning for the next days, weeks, and months of lesson plans, I left school as soon as the kids were gone each day and went home to take my afternoon nap, then awoke to dream and plan for our baby. I had no less than five secret pin boards on Pinterest, organized into categories from pregnancy announcements to nursery themes. I wasn’t going to be a teacher anymore, but that was okay—I was graduating to my real and actual dream job—motherhood.

On November 4^th, 2014, I experienced yet another unexpected change in my plans…a life-altering, mind-numbing, soul-crushing deviation that shook me to the core of everything I knew myself to be and made me face an undeniable truth.

My “independence” had gone on long enough.

In spite of my persistent determination to prove otherwise, I needed someone.

I needed God.

They say there are five “stages” of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, and while I didn’t progress through them in that particular order, I have gone through them all…and am still struggling with a few.

Denial and anger took hold simultaneously. I felt so angry at God for allowing this to happen and enraged with the doctor over her callous announcement of the crushing news. I was furious with my own mom—surely there was something medically wrong with me that she should have told me about. But amid the tumultuous fury, I didn’t want to believe that God would really take my baby from me. I refused to even consider that he would hurt me in the same way others had hurt me in the past. I may not have had the kind of relationship with Him where I talked to Him about every little thing and asked for His help in picking out my outfit for the day, but surely He understood I recognized His hand in my life. Surely He could see that I was aware of Him, but not so obsessed with Him that I couldn’t get through life without acting like a crazy religious freak.

The angry denial stage went on for a few days, followed by the bargaining. I prayed more in that week than I had in my entire life to that point. I begged God to just fix this, to prove the doctor wrong, to let me be a mother. I would forgive everyone who had hurt me, I’d start reading my Bible again, I’d get back into church faithfully and actually be mentally present while there… I would make sure my baby was in church from the first Sunday of her life and I’d teach her all about God. I would do anything, everything! But those desperate pleas ceased when the inevitable finally happened.

Miscarriage isn’t always just a one-day affair. Tuned in to His Radio on the way to work each day for the next month, songs of surrender and praise poured over my wounded soul as I suffered through the worst experience of my life. Francesca Battistelli’s “I’m Letting Go,” “Blessings,” by Laura Story, “Bring the Rain,” by Mercy Me, and Casting Crowns’ “Praise You in this Storm” seemed to play back-to-back continuously. Then when Chris Tomlin’s voice came on, singing “Lord, I need You,” I sang along through my tears. I don’t know that I’d call it acceptance…more like defeat and absolute surrender. Because, truly, what else could I do?

I had dreamed, planned, and worked harder than anyone else I’d ever known, but when it came down to the bare basics of who I am and what I can do, I had no choice but to admit, I was nothing without God.

The thing about hitting rock bottom is that there’s no other way but up. So, I looked up. The frantic entreaties for Him to give me what I wanted changed to equally desperate prayers for a heart that truly depends on Him alone. And while I didn’t see bright lights or hear the sound of angels singing, I can absolutely confirm that He heard and answered those prayers.

As I sit in church with Kelly each week now, I am truly present and excited to hear what God has for me. I can honestly say I have walked away from each service so far this year with something I could practically apply to my own life. This past Sunday, Pastor Adrian spoke on prayer and I was once again convicted. He mentioned how so often people say they don’t know how to pray, so they just don’t try, where others pray constantly but always with a list of requests and demands. I realized I somewhat fit into both of those categories. I know the basic concept of how to talk to God, but when it comes down to the actual message, I find it easy to simply present my wish list and utter a quick “thanks for everything!” before my “amen.” But the more I read His word, the more I want to talk to Him, to really get to know Him for myself.

My independent streak didn’t simply disappear forever when I hit rock bottom. It was bent and bruised a bit, but old habits die hard and I constantly find myself falling back toward my own independent ways, then stopping in the middle of a decision with the realization that I’d once again tried to omit God from the situation altogether.

So, I’ve been testing a new concept this week—talking to God about everything. When I see the weight go down on the scale, finish my grocery shopping trip with $30 leftover in my grocery budget for the week, and finally find out that I actually do like coffee now, I tell Him all about it. When things start going crazy and I feel the dark cloud of depression crowding in again, I eat my chocolate, cry my eyes out, and talk to the only One who can really fix any of it. Funny enough, I still go through the hours of depression, but He who is in me is much greater than the chemical and hormonal imbalance in my body.

I have fought hard my entire life to gain and maintain my independence. But I’m beginning to come to a strangely satisfying understanding that I can only do all things through Christ who gives me the strength.

In Christ Alone

Words and Music by Keith Getty and Stuart Townend

In Christ alone my hope is found;
He is my light, my strength, my song;
This cornerstone, this solid ground,
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace,
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease!
My comforter, my all in all—
Here in the love of Christ I stand.

In Christ alone, Who took on flesh,
Fullness of God in helpless babe!
This gift of love and righteousness,
Scorned by the ones He came to save.
Till on that cross as Jesus died,
The wrath of God was satisfied;
For ev'ry sin on Him was laid—
Here in the death of Christ I live.

There in the ground His body lay,
Light of the world by darkness slain;
Then bursting forth in glorious day,
Up from the grave He rose again!
And as He stands in victory,
Sin's curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am His and He is mine—
Bought with the precious blood of Christ.

No guilt in life, no fear in death—
This is the pow'r of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow'r of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home—
Here in the pow'r of Christ I'll stand.