This blog post references parts of my testimony about my struggle with anxiety, which I shared as part of a video series for Willowdale. You can watch the video here for more context.
Etched beneath the skin of my upper right arm is a picture that looks pretty strange without any context. It’s half of a brain and half of a heart, combined to look like one organ and framed by a sunflower, a rose, and some daisies. Inside of the brain are the words no fear in love, written in a delicate script that almost blends in with the lines of the brain.
I got this tattoo in January of 2022 as a tribute to my mental health journey. The brain and heart symbolize the necessity of balance between our thoughts and our emotions, or between truth and feeling. The brain represents truth, which is why the words are inside of it – because 1 John 4:18 is the truth I cling to when my feelings are telling me lies. The flowers represent some of the people who have played the biggest roles in my healing.
The day I got my tattoo, after some of the initial adrenaline wore off, I looked down at it and felt a sudden stab of disappointment. I hadn’t realized when I was choosing the placement that because of where the tattoo is on my arm, I can only see part of it. If I want to see the full picture, I have to find a mirror or take a photo of it. (Or twist the skin on my arm around and crane my neck to the right, which is as uncomfortable as it sounds.)
Anyone else looking at my tattoo can see it in all its glory, but most of the time my view is limited to the brain, the sunflower, and the words. I know the rest is there, but I can’t see it.
I’m learning to take moments like these as opportunities to pay attention to what God might be teaching me. As I stared down at the part of the tattoo I could see, it slowly dawned on me how reflective this was of my own story – the story my tattoo represented.
In the thick of my battle with anxiety, when I didn’t have words for what I was going through or awareness of the resources that could help, all I could see was the struggle. I could not see a light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn’t imagine how God was going to redeem this story. I couldn’t peer into the future and see my twenty-something self standing on a stage at church, giving a testimony of God’s love and faithfulness in the midst of the darkness I was facing.
I only saw the pain of the current moment. My eyes were stuck on a single chapter of the story God was writing, the page where everything started to fall apart. If I’d been able to skim forward, I would have seen the rescue coming just around the corner. I would have known that, eventually, everything was going to be okay. I was going to be okay.
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One of my favorite songs is “Shasta’s Complaint” by Sarah Sparks. The song was inspired by the book The Horse and His Boy, a lesser known installment in The Chronicles of Narnia series by C.S. Lewis (and my personal favorite). This book tells the story of a boy named Shasta, a prince who was torn from his home as a baby and raised by a cruel adopted father. After finding out his “father” plans to sell him into slavery, Shasta escapes and goes on a long journey that eventually leads him back to the palace where he was born.
During his travels, Shasta encounters even more troubles than the ones he dealt with at home, and toward the end of the book he comes face to face with a lion named Aslan – the God-figure of Lewis’s world – and asks Aslan where he was during the hardest moments of his journey. (You tell me now that I was never on my own? / Well pardon me, I don’t remember you at all / Cause with my back against the tomb I called you out / But I don’t think I heard your answer, I don’t think I heard a sound)
In response, Aslan points out all the times He was right beside Shasta and the boy didn’t even know it. When Shasta got separated from his friends and had to sleep alone in a desert, surrounded by eerie tombstones, Aslan was the small black cat who curled up against his back and made him feel less alone. (My love, I cared for you / I was the comfort you felt in the house of the dead / I drove from you / Beasts in the night, all of this I have done while you slept.)
The song ends with these two lines, repeated twice: All by my design / Every chapter and word I’ve written every line.
Every chapter and word. Aslan – God – has written every chapter and word of our stories. And this idea isn’t a figment of Lewis’s theology – we find it confirmed over and over again in Scripture.
“All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” (Psalm 139:16)
“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord. ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” (Jeremiah 29:11 NIV)
“For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” (Ephesians 2:10, NIV)
“A person’s days are determined; you have decreed the number of his months and have set limits he cannot exceed.” (Job 14:5, NIV)
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” (Romans 8:28, NIV)
Even the most difficult chapters of our lives, the ones we would rather skip past or tear from our stories altogether, serve a purpose that will ultimately end in our good. We may not be able to see it now or ever during our time on earth, but someday the full picture will be revealed.
When that day comes, I have a feeling that our jaws will drop, our eyes will fill with tears, and we will spend a long time gazing in holy wonder at its beauty while the Artist smiles over our shoulders.
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Over the course of the three years I’ve been in therapy, my counselor and I have often returned to my freshman year of high school. This year is what I consider to be Ground Zero of my mental health journey, the point when the enemy (along with genetic predisposition, imbalanced chemicals, and teenage insecurities) launched a full-scale attack against my brain. When I read the few journal entries I wrote as a freshman, my heart breaks over the confusion and loneliness scrawled across those pages.
During a recent session, as we were processing some particularly painful memories from that year, my counselor encouraged me to figuratively return to my freshman year of high school and ask my ninth grade self for forgiveness.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’ve already forgiven her,” I said. I meant it sincerely. During one of our early sessions, we talked about my tendency to blame my fourteen-year-old self for not reaching out for help sooner, how it wasn’t fair to expect her to know what my twenty-eight-year-old self knows now.
My counselor laughed. Not in a mean way, but in an ah, you’re missing the point way.
“She doesn’t need your forgiveness. You need to ask her for forgiveness. For wanting to write her out of your story.”
Cue the tears.
It was true. I’d spent years holding resentment toward Freshman Year Kati, believing deep down that if she hadn’t existed – if her story had been different – then maybe my story would be different. Maybe I would be married by now, or maybe I’d have a different job or more friends. Maybe my life would have been better without her in it.
I couldn’t see the full story.
But God could. And in His all-knowing kindness, He chose to write her into it.
And fourteen years later, when I look at my tattoo – the part that I can see – I can honestly say that I am thankful for Freshman Year me. She made me both stronger and softer, kinder and more empathetic. She taught me to see the ones lingering on the fringes of the circle, waiting to be invited in. She showed me how to look for people who need to be loved.
The thing I’m most thankful for, though, is that she helped me know Jesus better. And that truth alone makes her chapter worth keeping.
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Listen to Shasta’s Complaint by Sarah Sparks (and the rest of her album Into the Lantern Waste, while you’re at it!)
One of the most crucial parts of my healing journey has been receiving counseling services through The Peacemaker Center. I am so grateful for this organization and the work they do in helping clients along the path to mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. If you or someone you love is considering therapy, this is a wonderful place to start.
ABOUT OUR BLOGGER
Kati Lynn Davis grew up in Chester County. After a brief stay on the other side of Pennsylvania to earn a writing degree from the University of Pittsburgh, she returned to the area and got a job working for a local library.
When she isn’t writing, Kati enjoys reading, drawing, watching movies (especially animated ones!), drinking bubble tea, hanging out with her family cat, and going for very slow runs.
Kati is pretty sure she’s an Enneagram 4 but is constantly having an identity crisis over it, so thankfully she’s learning to root her sense of self in Jesus.