The blues and greens swirled and blended on the canvas, much like how my heart and mind have learned to work together the last two years. Looking back, my heart was so invested in my experiences—partly due to my age—amygdala reasoning that explodes in the teen and early twenties has been taking the back seat to pre-frontal reasoning—I think, therefore I am, a la Descartes. This was a subtle shift and natural path of putting “childish ways behind me”. But over the last two years, I definitely had growing pains. It was hard to reconcile the strong emotions tied to my time in Nairobi, the many deaths that occurred there and after, the fulfillment of a dream, the letdown of coming home and not having a clear next step. My heart was exhausted, and so my mind took over—I overanalyzed everything—friendships, decisions, and yes, my faith. My heart wanted answers to the hurt and my head said—alright, let’s get some. But as I reasoned, I waivered. I couldn’t understand how people could believe in a god who was big enough to see the pain in this world, but didn’t have the heart to fix it—at least on my timetable. The Christian platitudes pissed me off—it felt so hollow for healthy, wealthy Americans to proclaim God’s goodness when they rarely had to trust him to provide in tangible ways. I felt like a hypocrite—it hurt too much to process—so I didn’t. I decided to let my mind lead—after all, it’s always been my crutch—my clutch hitter that knocked doubt out of the park. The problem was, all my thinking perpetuated my tired fears. Admittedly, this year of school was a nice break—I had an excuse to not process and I “just didn’t have the time to read my bible, to care, to pray”—I was in grad school, for goodness sakes—there’s always an excuse for apathy.
But I still found myself with the same questions, the same anger, the same doubt. My mind choked—it struck out when it came to batting away a years’ worth of thought patterns. By God’s grace, my heart started to speak up, to speak truth that life hurts, but there’s hope. Ironically, this year spent studying behaviorism strengthened my understanding that there is more than behavior—we are mind body and soul. It took compartmentalizing to bring me to a place where I saw my own weakness, my need for grace and humility. My heart and mind need each other. The last week, as I’ve studied intensively for my exam tomorrow morning, an old favorite song has been flooding my mind—one by Chris Tomlin titled “I Will Rise” the chorus articulates:
There’s a peace I’ve come to know,
Though my heart, my flesh, may fail,
There’s an anchor for my soul,
I can say, “it is well”.
Jesus has overcome.
And the grave, is overwhelmed.
The victory is won, He is risen from the dead.
I will rise, when he calls my name,
No more sorrow, no more pain…
This song has been significant for me in the past—the year after I found out about my hearing loss, when I’ve lost friends and family, and now—as I realize there is a peace I’ve come to know. My heart and flesh will fail—but there IS an anchor for my soul, and it is well.
