Some things just stay with you when you change countries. French toast is one of those things for me. So are depression and anxiety.
During the 7 days I’ve been here, I’ve made French toast three times. Not only does it bring back heartwarming memories of cooking an entire loaf of the stuff every Sunday night with my friends in Chicago, but it’s cheap and tasty. You can put just about anything on it. I’ve been using peanut butter this week because that’s protein, my friends, and because it’s a sweet and salty taste of America.
I tried to put applesauce on it today, but I couldn’t get the jar open for the life of me. Tried all the tactics I could think of, but nothing worked. Applesauce went back on the shelf unopened, and the peanut butter came back out to play.
I’ve been trying for a long time to get my jar of normalcy open again, the jar that always wants to get out of bed in the morning and doesn’t have a hard time breathing or going out of the house or talking to people. I’ve been trying to crank it open for a while now. Actually, this month marks about year since the struggle began. Some days I think I’ve got it almost open – I can practically smell the contents – but it’s not open or perhaps knows how to re-seal itself.
You know how hard it is to open jars sometimes. Sometimes you feel arthritic just because you can’t open the darn jar. Or you feel that maybe you haven’t been doing enough to work out your arm muscles. Something must be wrong with you because you can’t open this jar. But it’s really not your fault.
So you put it back and open an easier jar until you can muster up the strength or tenacity or whatever its going to take to get that jar open. Obviously, you don’t know what it takes, otherwise you’d be chowing on applesauce with your French toast.
So I’m here, in Austria, eating my French toast and healing because healing is a process that begs to be lived. It asks for you to learn and to walk one day at a time. I think, in spite of all my trepidation and fear about being across the globe while I still don’t feel right yet, I think I’m supposed to be here, healing.
I got lost on purpose yesterday, because walking is healing. No reason why. It just is. And each day I have to depend solely on God because I know few other people here and none so well as Him.
There is a time to hurt.
And there is a time to heal.