Every so many months it never fails that a swing will knock on my door. Well truthfully it’s more like it knocks down my door. It bombards its way into my living room and unpacks as if its going to stay forever. Every time, I protest. To which this noon day demon bellows an evil laugh and so it begins….the unrelenting, neverending assault of thoughts that take on a life of their own as my brain scatters in a frenzy to fight against the terror.

“I’m doing it wrong!” This statement ruminates in the forefront of my mind. I somehow developed this (seemingly false) belief that IF I were doing “it” right I would not experience the tragically harsh days of this illness. I think to myself that if I can read enough, exercise enough, keep a perfect mood journal, eat only wholefoods, meditate, and pray enough then I would live in a way where the illness could not “get me.” So, when inevitability the illness has the audacity to make its presence known in my everyday relationships and everyday life I do what is probably the most unhelpful thing. I turn on myself. I brutally “should on myself.” Suddenly the dialogue which was once so clearly the illness talking becomes ME talking. Yikes!

I become both the assaulter and the victim. The dialogue that happens between these two characters form a script that plays out on the stage of my existence. I can’t hear from anyone because the chatter dominates. Without intervention the script plays out like a wretched tragedy.

So, how do I escape the horrors of the plot line?

I must flip the script. I must put down the writing pen and let God write my story. This, for me, is profoundly hard. It requires intentionality. It also requires support. I need the support of my faith and my friends. I need truth as an anchor. I need truth spoken to me and truth spoken over me. I need truth shining its light in my darkest midnight.

I once told a friend that if I could just do all the things and do them consistently then my story would come together. Then and only then would my story be of help to others. I keep thinking if I can somehow just get “it” right I would be worthwhile. That’s shaky theology to say the least. I have rarely taken the time to immerse myself in someone else’s story that did not contain struggle. In fact, someone’s story of struggle only endears me to them. Perfection is both unattainable and boring.

I am grateful for those in my life who help me flip the script. They don’t settle for some pseudo optimistic persona. They push me to flip the narratives in my head that hold me back and hold others at a distance. “Hard earned optimism” is what one of my people’s narrative echos. This lovely soul, whose story is one of both triumph and tears, reminds me that our story is given a fresh and profoundly new life giving meaning when shared in the light of Christ’s redemption.

It’s the sharing of my story that ultimately forces me to flip the script. There is something chain breaking when we share our story with those who honor our tears when they fall. Flipping the script is a life long journey. I hope that in the end when my story is wrapped up and the curtain is drawn I will have told my story in a way that invites others into it. I hope my words and my struggles invite those fellow script flippers to speak a bit more boldly of their struggle.

We need each other to flip the scripts that plague our mind. We need to have the freedom to share our story with safe people. Flipping the script can and must happen for my life to make its way through the darkest of midnights. I need you and I have a feeling you need others too. Ultimately, we serve a Savior whose script trumps the enemy’s pitiful attempt to write his narrative as a banner over us. His script seemed to be over. It seemed that the enemy had won. But. Jesus rose. He rose so that we can rise with him.

Let us rise because Jesus flipped the script.