So I’ve been blogging here for three months and have only written two “Struggle Sunday” posts. Just goes to show how hard it is to write about the tough stuff — topics I do regularly want to examine. So if it’s been several Sundays without a struggler post, feel free to nudge me on the shoulder and say, “Hey, you need to bare/bear your messed up, struggling soul on your blog again. Thanks.”
So, shame on me for not writing this post sooner. Oh, and hey, what a great segue for this Struggle Sunday post on shame.
I care what people think of me. Care too much. And too much care has spiraled into fear, and that’s what this Struggle Sunday centers upon: fear of man. My particular fear of man majorly covers a facet I’ve long known about myself, but the root issue stems from something much more significant and harrowing beneath the surface.
To kick off my first “Struggle Sunday,” which just so happens to align with the 10th anniversary of 9/11, I thought I’d talk about something we all experience at one point or another: doubting God’s direction in our lives.
I’ve never heard God’s audible voice. Never seen mystical writing in the sky or in the sand or inside my eyelids when I close them at night. And yet somehow I knew where to go to college my freshman year and whether to transfer after that. I knew to study abroad at Oxford University one summer and to serve with YouthWorks another. And ultimately I somehow knew to undertake a crazy life-altering cross-country move to California.