Write It
If you haven’t yet, I invite you to read my other posts:
7/19/25 – “Wholly Made” — a reflection on Theology of the Body
7/21/25 – “TOB and Two-Minute Twerk” — honoring the body’s need for movement
9/13/25 – “When Random Isn’t So Random” — how God kept leading me to Jeremiah
9/29/25 – “The Beginning” — the family as cornerstone
You might scroll through those and think, Michelle, are you sure you want to blog?
There’s no consistency in theme—or even posting schedule!
Fair. My last post (9/29) ends with, “I’ll be back tomorrow,” and here we are—10/31.
I might as well have said, “I’ll be back soon,” keeping things on brand with Jesus. 😉
But there is a theme—one buried deep beneath the surface, known mostly to me:
rebellion and defiance.
The Calling I Keep Resisting
Since I was fifteen, God has whispered the same instruction: Write your story.
At eighteen, He said it again. I would start, then quit. It’s too much.
And still, He hasn’t stopped asking.
Every day lately, I pray:
“God, what do You want me to do? Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”
Yet I’ve kept delaying this one thing—hoping He might eventually give me a different directive.
Instead, He keeps sending flashes of a young Chelle Lynn:
sitting at her new typewriter, or bent over a notepad and pen—my favorite gift of all time.
Even now, as I write this, I feel the old hesitation rise up:
But God… I’ve tried before—it hurt too much.
But God… I’m nobody. Who will ever read it?
But God… what’s the point?
His reply never changes:
“Write it.”
So I am. Not for vindication, approval, or recognition—but because I was told to.
And even as I obey, my spirit still mutters, “Grrr.”
Last night’s prayer ended in tears:
“I don’t want to.”
“Not my will, but Yours be done.”
I don’t know what good this will do, or what trouble it might stir,
but I keep hearing Jeremiah’s reassurance:
“Do not fear the people, for I am with you.
I will put My words in your mouth.”
Or maybe, in my case, in my pen.
So let’s start in the middle, circle back to the beginning, and walk the ending together.
The Middle: A Year Ago
Almost a year ago to the day, I left another toxic marriage—a story for another time (soon).
When I walked out, I saw freedom stretching before me like an open road.
I felt like a bird finally out of its cage.
But as I moved into my new home and tried to rebuild a life of self-care, what I met instead was anxiety.
Hiking, once my favorite outlet, triggered a panic attack so severe I thought I was dying.
Nights were worse. I’d drift between couch and bed, dread pressing down until I slept with every light on.
I went to the hospital more than once. I’d catch ten-minute naps at work between caring for patients—anything to make up for the hours I lost to fear.
Spiritually, I was scattered. Years of dabbling from Islam to Buddhism had left me with fragments but no peace.
My 3 a.m. wake-ups (ever since watching The Exorcism of Emily Rose) felt ominous.
I tried Christian radio, but “Frosty the Snowman” wasn’t exactly a balm I was looking for.
Most nights I cried myself to sleep—or stayed on the phone with someone, anyone, just to feel another human presence.
“Please God, let me sleep,” became my nightly mantra.
Then one night, exhausted from begging, I saw it:
Water above me—and through it, a hand.
I reached for it, and in that moment, peace washed over me just long enough for sleep to finally come.
The Turning
Months later, I fell asleep on the couch with some random show playing on Prime.
When I woke up, The Chosen was on.
I made a guttural noise and turned it off—“I’m not watching that.”
I shuffled to the kitchen, collapsed over the counter, and wept.
But even through tears, that image of Jesus lingered.
Curiosity won. I restarted from episode one.
Then came the moment that changed me—Jesus showing up at a tavern, saying to Mary Magdalene,
“That’s not for you.”
He followed her out into the night—and I fell apart.
Through ugly-cry sobs I whispered,
“Oh Jesus, can You hold me too?”
I binged all four seasons within a month. I watched between patients, before bed, and every weekend—wrapped in my blanket burrito.
Each episode left me wrecked and seen all at once.
For the first time in decades, I felt chosen.
The tears I’d hoarded for forty-seven years finally had somewhere to fall.
From Panic to Prayer
The anxiety didn’t disappear overnight. I still wrestled with sleep and fear,
but something inside me had shifted—a hunger to know the One who had reached through the water.
One day, still in that season of gripping panic, I sat down with my mala beads, intending to do my usual Buddhist chant.
But when I opened my mouth, the words that came out were different:
“Our Father…”
I laughed softly and said, “Well, if I’m going to do this, might as well do it right.”
Not long after, I told my mom that I wanted a rosary.
A few days later, she surprised me—with the beads of my late brother, Michael.
That gift wrecked me in the most beautiful way.
The mala beads, sage sticks, and crystals went into the trash.
And though I didn’t fully realize it at the time, that moment marked the quiet beginning of my return to Christ.
Becoming
In the months that followed, I felt the Spirit leading me deeper:
I got ordained, not because I plan to officiate weddings, but because I wanted to understand God’s covenant of love.
I discovered the Hallow app, where teachers like Jonathan and Jeff Cavins opened my heart to Theology of the Body—truths that healed old wounds between me and Jesus.
I started visiting the Abbey of Gethsemani, where silence—and Thomas Merton—taught me how to meet God in stillness.
And I officially joined OCIA, my heart finally ready to come home to the Church.
The anxiety hasn’t vanished completely, but it no longer owns me.
It’s been replaced by a peace that keeps inviting me to trust and to write.
Why I’m Writing
I’m writing because God told me to.
Because He’s been asking since I was fifteen.
Because somewhere out there, someone else can’t sleep either—and maybe these words can keep them company until they can.
My prayer is that someone, somewhere, will feel seen and find a little freedom in this story.
And if the only person freed is me—that’s still grace enough.
Amen. 💜✝️
