It’s no secret that I bear little love for Missouri (Misery, my loved ones like to say, and they’re only half-joking).
I know that my cold feelings are at least partially unfair. It’s not the state’s fault, not really. It’s just that last time we were here, in 2021, I spiraled into a terrible depression and lost one of the people I loved most in the world and became semi-convinced that God despised me.
Okay, let me back up a bit.
The first time we met with our now-priest, Father Michael, he pointed to John's chest and said, "In your heart, you are already Orthodox. Your head just has to catch up."
I think I liked the enneagram because it helped me put my own flaws and unhealthy tendencies into words. There were things I’d never been able to articulate about myself before, and in those burgeoning years of young adulthood, it felt powerful to admit some of the icky stuff: I’m anxious; I think I might die if I get a C in class; I internalize shame over things I know are small in my head but feel heavy in my heart.
Emma, you might be thinking, these all sound like the kinds of things you should bring up in therapy.
You, dear reader, are correct.
Behold, Israel: your King. There He is, in all His glory: bruised, naked, bleeding, humiliated, betrayed. What outrage; what sorrow. It’s nonsensical, that this would be the death of the Messiah. The cross is no symbol of salvation or triumph; it’s an execution device for common criminals. What agony He must feel, His pierced hands… Continue reading Good Friday, Holy Saturday
