Long story short-

I accidentally took the summer off from Substack. Let's talk about it.

It’s no secret that I wear a lot of hats. Wife. Mom. Seminarian. Chaplain-in-training. Accidental Bible Teacher. Disability Theologian. Person. Human.

But over the summer I really struggled with just acknowledging my own personhood and agency. You see, I had the incredible opportunity to spend part of my summer participating in an independent study with one of my all-time favorite professors. Leading up to my independent study and even during the research phase, I was like a kid in a candy story. I got to deep dive down some of my favorite theological rabbit holes. I got to read and read and read. I got to have nerdy conversations about God and doctrine that lit me up from the inside out— conversations where I was encouraged, felt seen and heard. But in the middle of the summer, I hit a bit of a wall. Now, I didn’t just lightly tap the wall, I crashed into it, full force.

You see, I realized that I had a hard choice to make in regard to the work I was doing. I had SO much good theology in my brain. I was sifting and sorting through these various concepts and conversations, and it was electric. But the question that snagged me was this: Was I going to stick with the academic argument, or was I going to dare to let this work heal me?

And you know what? For the first part of the summer, I chose the first path. It was in many ways the much safer option. My argument was fantastic. Well organized. Clean. Well cited. But at some point I realized that my unwillingness to connect the dots between the academic work and my own story were rooted in a lot of very personal pain. That realization gnawed at me. It wouldn’t let me go. And eventually I felt frozen in place, unable to do much of anything. And it got to the point that I was thinking too many scary thoughts. And those scary thoughts were overstaying a welcome they never should have been granted. The idea of connecting my work to my lived experience was suddenly too personal. too painful. too much. But I couldn’t move past it. I couldn’t get over it.

In preparation to turn in the academic version of my work, I met with my advisor. But it was in those conversations that I realized that me connecting these dots through story was a conversation that’s missing on a lot of theological bookshelves. It’s easy to write about the relationship between doctrine and discipleship when it’s an abstract impersonal concept… but revealing why this conversation is SO relevant, so personal… that was hard.

There was one night in particular that I asked myself if it would be better for me to not be alive anymore and let my story die with me. But the idea of my kids never knowing the real story haunted me. So. I picked up my pen. er— keyboard. And after a good bit of tear-filled wrestling, and a call to a safe friend, I set the academic argument aside. I never turned it in. I turned a story. Writing the story didn’t just help me bridge the academics with my main idea, it helped me heal.

Because for me, my experiences were not crises of faith, they were crises of theology. Some of those crises were scary. Embarrassing. I had to disentangle and dismantle and deconstruct and figure out what was going on so that I could replace all of the lies that I used to believe. But you know what? Writing that story saved me this summer. God met me on the page and reminded me of his goodness over and over.

So, I just wanted to say that.

In this Substack space we talk a lot about disability and caregiving and what it looks like to care for one another well. But how we care for our bodies includes our brains. Sometimes we need time to process. Time to slow down, take a step down, and ask hard questions. And while I know we love for our social media feeds to be encouraging and uplifting— we loved building beautiful brands, aesthetics— it’s more important now that ever to remember that we humans live life in the real life real world. It’s not always pretty, but its real.

We experience God in our real bodies. We practice theology in our real bodies. And sometimes those very human struggles don’t translate in these inherently dehumanizing spaces like the internet.

September is suicide awareness month. Mental health struggles are real. It matters that we destigmatize what it looks like to struggle, so that people can know what it looks like to ask for help, and what it looks like on the other side.

So, as summer slips away into a moment in time I just want to remind readers of a few things:

·       First: If you’re struggling, speak up. Blurt it out. Make it weird. Your story matters. You staying alive matters. You are not too much. You are not a burden. You are worthy of healing and wholeness regardless of where you are on your journey. Normalize hard moments being hard moments and remember that God is bigger than the hardest hard moments. In the words of SJM, we don’t let the hard days win.

·       If you aren’t struggling, maybe this conversation doesn’t resonate. That’s okay. Either way, choose to be a safe person. Whether or not you’re in a helping profession, be a safe friend. Be safe for your spouse. For your kids. Be a safe pastor. A safe professor. A safe teacher. You don’t get to decide when you’re safe for someone else, but you do get to prioritize cultivating safety. It isn’t weak to be a soft place for someone else to land. And while seasons where we struggle come and go, no one expects to find themselves in a scary place confronting scary thoughts. But if you do accidentally find yourself there, you’ll ask “who is safe to disclose this to?” Be that person. Choose to be the person who can remind someone how much they matter so that when they’re struggling, they believe you. The cool thing about belief, is sometimes we take turns with it. Sometimes we let someone else pickup the slack for us and believe truth things about God on our behalf. Then we trade. This is what it’s like to be the church and bear one another’s burdens.

·       Lastly, pick up the pen, even when you’re scared- even when you don’t know what’s going to happen. Take a risk to let yourself unmask on the page. Blank pages are a safe place. Whether its poetry or painting. Creative practices connect us to our creator. They have the power to ground us, remind us of our humanity, and the God who’s image we bear.

Did writing the story solve everything? No. But the process that I was so terrified of was the one that helped me heal. Seminary gave me the language to have better conversations about my past in light of who God is and what God is like. It put a lot of academic tools in my toolbox. Studying counseling & psychology put a lot of practical tools in my toolbox too. But if I leave those tools untouched and disconnected from my own lived experience, they don’t do a damn bit of good. It’s true that shame dies when we tell stories in safe places, and because I had the support of people who loved me who could remind me the truth of what God is like in real time, those hard moments this summer didn’t win.

Anyway.

I just came here to share why I’ve been quiet, and let you know I’m doing much better.

And I also just want to remind my readers that when you’re navigating the most tender parts of your story, it is normal to feel feelings. It’s okay if those feelings pelt you like a ton of bricks. Whether you were the victim, the villain, or both, there’s healing on the other side, and God is with us every step of the way.

Liz

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I promise, I really do plan to update this space more regularly going forward, so feel free to let me know how I can help you here. What types of posts would you like to see? Why are you here? What do you want to learn more about? Bible? Theology? Disability? Caregiving? How can I help?

As always, thank you for being here and supporting my writing. Right now the BEST way to support my work is make sure that you’re engaging here, on threads, and IG (@lizadaye) so that my readers and I can find one another.

Also, if you’re not caught up with season 7 of the Untidy Faith podcast, Jon, Kate, & I have had some beautiful conversations about some of the hardest stories in 2nd Samuel. I hope they encourage you.

If you are someone who is curious about who God is and what God is like, particularly in the context of suffering/grief/disability/diagnoses, this is a safe space to rest, to wonder, and welcome one another.

Shalom, y’all.