Round 3: Joyless, Beautiful Pain

Have you ever felt like you were living in a world of color, and everyone else was still living in gray?

That's how I felt after we got home from Singapore. Completely unsure of how to reconcile my time in Singapore with my return to a fast-paced, consumerist, and seemingly hollow American life. 

Of course, my life in America is not hollow. It is rich, full of fulfilling relationships and its own kind of growth and experiences. But it is hard for a 13-year-old brain to comprehend that.

I had been so excited to start public middle school, as I had only ever attended charter before. I had high hopes and dreams for how it would turn out.

It didn't turn out as I had hoped. 
For lack of a more mature word, it sucked. A lot. 

And the worst thing was, I had no idea why it was so hard. Nothing blatantly horrendous was happening to me. It was just hard. 

I remember crying in the bathroom at school, trying to muffle my sobs with my hands and closed mouth so no one in the surrounding stalls would hear me. 
I remember crying into my hands at lunch, pretending I was just yawning and rubbing my face.

I want to cry just thinking about it. 

To make a long story short (sort of), I left. I'm not usually a quitter, but I was just done. I literally could not handle it. 

And a few days later, to my great shame and embarrassment, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Honestly, I'm still a little bit ashamed. 

"What is wrong with me? Why am I so screwed up? Medicate me? What will other people think?"

(To this day, even though I have often pondered how wrong the mental health stigma is in our society, I still allow myself to succumb to its unjust judgement.)

If you've ever been "depressed" (I hate that word), or just so at the end of yourself--broken and hurt--you know what I am talking about.

Hours and hours of crying. I can't stop. I don't know why. 
Weeping. Rocking back in forth, lying in fetal position, yearning for comfort that will stop the tears.
Not feeling. Not smiling. Not eating.
A cloud of sorrow.
Thoughts of death. Crying even more that I could even think that. 

"What is wrong with me? What is even happening?"

"He reached down from on high and took hold of me;

    he drew me out of deep waters.

17 

He rescued me from my powerful enemy,

    from my foes, who were too strong for me.

18 

They confronted me in the day of my disaster,

    but the Lord was my support.

19 

He brought me out into a spacious place;

    he rescued me because he delighted in me."

Psalm 18:16-19

I have a vivid memory of laying on my bed, sobbing. My mother, at her wits end, resorted to the one enduring truth that she knew--His words. I don't know how long she read those Psalms to me, but I remember them. I will always remember them. 

Joy comes in the morning. It does. 

And God redeems pain. 

He turns it into something beautiful. He did for me, despite how I didn't see or even anticipate it in the moment. As much as it hurt and tore at my soul, I am strangely thankful for my bout with joylessness. Because I am more able to feel others pain now. 

With redemption, my pain became so beautiful. 

Round 2: Singapore.

It's funny how much life can change in such a short amount of time.

I grew up in a home surrounded by little scraps and memories of my parent's past adventures of roaming around in Asia. My Father lived in China for a total of two and a half years, and my Mother for one of those years after they were married.

I have vivid childhood memories of sifting through boxes of Chinese souvenirs and other bits-and-bobs stored in our basement. I remember miniature Terra Cotta Warriors, dragon kites, Chinese baby clothes, sets of chopsticks, Mandarin characters, and much more.
I grew up fascinated with Asia and its culture, always feeling jealous when my Dad would fly off to some exotic Asian country for work and leave me at home.

But in 2009, I got my own piece of Asia. My father was up for sabbatical, and he decided to spend it abroad. So in the fall of 2009, we packed up and moved our family of six to a little bitty apartment at Nanyang Technological University in Singapore, Singapore.

We got to do some pretty cool stuff around Asia. Like travel to a total of six Asian countries. And ride elephants on Christmas Day. And visit a lot of crazy awesome temples. And meet some pretty swell people.

But despite all of my beloved adventures, that is not what this post is about. I am pretty dang blessed to have been able to travel around Asia so much, but cool stories and weird experiences are not the only things I gained.

In short, my experiences in Asia rocked my world. 

My experiences rocked my faith. 

Little thirteen-year-old me couldn't understand what I saw. Besides the typical teenage issues (am I pretty enough? Am I thin enough? Do I have worth?), my main struggle was this: How is it that those of other religions are so incredibly passionate and dedicated to their faith, when I and so many others Christians I knew don't seem to care much about our God and our faith?

What? 

I found myself wondering: "Is there a God, is He even real? If He is real, what does it mean to be a true Christian?" 

Singapore started a chain of events, events that forced me to exit my time as a child. I could honestly write an entire book on my time in Singapore. But for now, here is what Singapore was mostly about: Changing me. Changing my world view. Changing how I saw God. Changing my life.

Redeemed. Round 1.

Hi there!
Welcome to Redeemed.

 My name is Betsy, and to be perfectly honest, I've never had a blog before. 

I think the awkward middle-school me tried to create a blog--but that flopped after about two posts. So why now? Well, partially because I need a hobby. And also because one of my dearest friends has a killer blog that blows my mind every time I read it. But mostly, it is because I am a passionate, opinionated, and insecure college student who wants to share my joys, thoughts, and ideas with whomever will listen. So here it goes. 

Let's start a little over a month ago. 
I did something a little crazy. I got a tattoo. (gasp)

It is on the inside of my left ankle. It is really small, only about four inches in length. But it carries a wealth of meaning for me. 

In fact, at this point in my life, it encompasses nearly two decades of who I am. 

Nineteen years of ups, downs, tears, and smiles, all encompassed in one little permanent mark on the medial portion of my left ankle. 

But it is too long of a story just now, so I will leave you with this for the moment. My story of redemption includes a few life changing months living abroad, a frustrating and scary tussle with a crooked spine, a battle for joy, and the death of a friend. It also includes a lot of personal prayer as well as prayer for me, long conversations with mentors who have changed my life, and a lot of  hope in God's unfailing promises to redeem and renew me. 

I hope that you will keep reading. It is my hope that my stories and thoughts will shine a light to the one who is greater than I.

Until next time, my friends.