Photography by Raegan Christensen
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In this first Spring Issue of Floras Magazine, we are featuring testimonies of women who have stories of holy brokenness through motherhood and mental illness. What does that mean, exactly? It’s stories from women who have known the struggles of their identity in motherhood and stories from women who suffered under the hands of depression, anxiety, and suicide. I know, these are heavy topics for something as bright as Spring. Well, these are our every-day life stories. They’re words from women not wanting to get out from under their wooly sheets because of the darkness they’re in, words from deep places of women’s hearts that ultimately give glory to God out of their brokenness.
“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” 2 Cor. 12:9-11 My heart and soul have been poured out in the making of Floras; my prayer is that the Lord uses this magazine to reach those who are in need—to help them realize they are not alone, they can do it, and that God is being glorified through their every-day life. You matter, not because of anything you can do, but because—simply—you are His. The beautiful composition of the magazine would not be possible without our lovely contributing photographers, Lauren Grigg, Lauren Bryant, Heather Payne, and Raegan Christensen, as well as all of our contributing poets and writers. We are so grateful for their willing and giving hearts for the launch of this magazine. I also want to thank my husband for encouraging me every step of the way. With all of my love,
Founder + Editor-in-Chief
Photography by Lauren Bryant
Photography by Lauren Grigg
Please Note: The images within this magazine are not affiliated with the writers, artists, or poets themselves unless otherwise stated. In addition, all faded background photos behind each writer’s featured story are photographs by Raegan Christensen, unless otherwise noted at the bottom. That includes non-faded photos on full spreads.
Photography by Raegan Christensen
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the story of M E Y L N N H A G A N
I am three years into my battle with mental illness and there is yet no end in sight. Currently, I am diagnosed with general anxiety disorder and major clinical depression. I have been seeing a psychiatrist for two and half years and on multiple medications for the same amount of time. All of these things, multiple diagnoses and years of seeing doctors and utilizing medication to treat my illnesses, draw judgment and classification as “crazy” by society, a label I have grown to make my peace with. In addition, I have learned to be content in and to accept these painful, life wrecking years in this fight because they have been full of the most bitter suffering and also the most necessary good in my life. Like the stigmas and labels I have experienced, this dichotomy is something I have learned to accept with calmness. In all these aspects, I am learning to live in the tensions while being at peace with my journey. How is it even possible to state that this mental illness battle is the most beneficial thing I’ve experienced when I take a quick overview of the suffering I’ve experienced? Due to my anxiety disorder, I have endured hundreds of panic attacks. In some, I could feel myself being physically beaten on the head by demonic powers. In the other attacks, I was possessed by the idea that if I could just break myself open and release the terror, it would leave and so the fists falling on my head were my own. Some nights, these brutal panic attacks would come wave upon wave, a fresh one taking hold a few minutes after the last subsided. I have spent hours, screaming in terror, unsure of how I was going to keep breathing through the next second and, though I pounded on heaven’s gate with desperate pleas to let me in or provide relief, I continued to scream out in heaven’s silence. In recent months, these extreme
panic attacks have evolved and transformed into stress induced seizures. The sheer terror of my typical panic attacks have been replaced with the frightening dimness of my brain misfiring as I lay convulsing uncontrollably on the floor any moment that my anxiety is triggered. As painful as my anxiety disorder is, nothing can compare to the extent of pain that depression has inflicted. I have fallen to such depths of smothering, excruciating darkness that I have despaired of life. I have experienced the crushing weight of hopelessness as it filled every bone in my body. Yet, even that was not the worst. The worst of all horrors has been the suicidal visions that plague me whenever or wherever they chose. In these visions, I smell, taste, hear, and see myself ending my life in such crystal, clear detail that it genuinely feels like a memory. These visions have driven me to such a point of desperation and suicidal ideation that I was admitted to a mental hospital for a week last December.
In light of all this, how is it even possible to take a quick survey of the most horrific moments of this every day, never ceasing battle and say it is one of the best things to ever happen to me? How can such a thing be fathomed?
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It is in the pain of being torn apart and unmade that the God’s grace shines the brightest. Before my diagnosis, I was lukewarm in my faith. I was raised in the church and a genuine believer but sitting in cruise control in my faith journey. My mental illness flipped me out of that cruise control with sudden brutality. I was forced to face God and wrestle with Him every day to find that gritty place where His promises intersected with the horror of my moment to moment life. In Psalm 23:5, the psalm I have clung to these last years, it says “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows” and I have had to grapple with God over the reality of that verse. Rather than promising prosperity or the end of suffering, this verse promises the very real presence of God and the overflowing, confusing joy that bursts forth in the midst of genuine enemies that press in all around. As I have experienced over and over, this promise is sound and true and holy. I have not been spared from so many moments of suffering as I have begged; yet, in His great, tender, mighty, and gentle way, God has shown Himself to be my Father and the God who weeps with me. He is here with me, even though I am not just walking
through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I have made my home here in the suffering, pain, and darkness and, yet, I rest here with my face buried in God’s chest while we weep together.
Here as I sit, held tangibly in His arms, I have been given strength to accept society’s labels and my story, judgements, horrors and all, as God’s gift to me and make my peace with them. I am given weakness as the battle continues so that God’s greatness shines unmistakably in the depths. This sweet, sweet intimacy with the God of the universe, who I now know in the deepest, most concrete part of my soul as my comforting Father, redeems the parts of my story that I wish I never had experienced and gives me a deep well of hope for the future. In this sweet fellowship, as I am hemmed in all around, I can say “…my cup overflows…”. I know more than ever that “...surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” (Psalm 23:5–6).
ABOUT Melynn is a child of God, a writer, an animal lover, and a mental illness warrior. She currently live in Arizona with her wonderful husband of five years and their two fur babies. She has an overwhelming passion for those suffering from mental illness and is outspoken in her quest to end the stigma. Her faith is the thing that has carried her through her suffering and her heart is to share how great and faithful God is, even in the darkest of places. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 12
Photography by Lauren Bryant
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Savannah Wall on her Wedding Day, Photo by Meme Urbane Photography Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 15
the story of S A V A N N A H W A L L
My fifth attempt. This is my fifth attempt at writing this piece only to erase what I’ve written to prove to myself that maybe, just maybe I’m not in this. Stare at blank page. Resume latest episode of “This Is Us.” Tears birth that have nothing to do with the show. Close laptop. I can’t wrap my mind around the place I’m at very well and so writing about it seems absurd — silly, even. You could say it’s all of life’s major disappointments all piling up. Or you might say it’s living with an incurable disease, but then I’d tell you I’d choose my physical pain over depression any day. Maybe it’s people’s disappointments one after the other—the timing of it all. It pains me that I no longer feel like a broken plate of glass, salvageable because it’s only cracked in three pieces. Maybe some people can cement their broken parts with green tea matcha and essential oils or whatever the earthy healing trend is today, but that doesn’t cut it for me.
I feel crushed. Shattered in ashes. Dust-like. Homesick for all I was before depression met me. The home of my heart is vacant; every blow of life only churns the ashes round and round in my heart.
If you’re going through depression, I know you feel heavy. You make a list of different reasons to tell your friends why you can’t make the outing so they sound different each time. Maybe you have a good family, a loving spouse, even a furry friend to take away your Sunday blues, but you still feel alone. It’s not that you’re not grateful — you’re heartbroken, hopeless at the thought you’re alive and yet no matter how hard you keep trying, you can’t seem to be present. I have a reoccurring memory of my husband stopping me in our hallway to dance with me. I started to cry, croaking, “I don’t feel like dancing.” My husband’s reply was everything when he said, “Well then, we’re gonna dance.” Though my husband was holding me, I couldn’t seem to feel him. I only felt his hands holding mine and the warmth his neck brought to my freezing nose. My tears could fill a stream. No, it’s not that I’m not grateful. I’m desperate — frantic for just a moment not to feel miles and miles away from everything and everyone I love.
Depression feels like you’re waiting for something that’s never going to happen. I don’t know how to encourage you in my pain except to tell you a short story. In early October of this year, I got a tattoo of an olive branch. Its meaning goes deep in my veins: Olive trees surprisingly thrive in deserts and rocky soil and when these trees are pressed, they produce something called beaten oil of the highest quality. Olive oil was used to light household lamps in the past — the very thing that came once the fruit was picked and crushed, became the thing that gave new light. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 16
Two months later, I walked into a Christian store and saw a book titled, “100 Things God Loves About You.” I opened the book and landed on #22:
“God loves your ashes.” Tears filled my eyes and the words became a blur. I realized my dust doesn’t have to mean the end to anything. God loves my ashes because He will use them to make something new, like He did in the beginning.
But dust was essential, you see. This heartache has a purpose. And like other seasons of my life, this will be something I’ll look back on and know exactly why it had to happen this way. Whether it starts out as a small flicker like the day I opened that book, the household lamp of my heart will turn on. My light is coming.
ABOUT Savannah Wall is a special education teacher living in Fort Worth, TX with her husband and cat, Meeko. She is a free spirit with a foundation of love from her Heavenly Father and believes in the power of prayer and strong coffee. Savannah struggles with auto-immune disease and depression and is an advocate for proper mental health medicinal care as well as healthy life-style habits. Savannah is creator of the blog One Mountain at a Time where she encourages thousands in faith by writing with a transparent heart reaching all the way to Peru, South Africa, Ireland and more. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 17
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the story of R A C H E L S C H E L B I
remember fun days at the local botanical gardens. I remember feeding koi fish and learning to identify flowers and birds. I remember library days reading Highlights magazine and checking out all the Amelia Bedelia and Boxcar children books. I remember walking barefoot in the creek behind the library and doing leaf races to see which current would win. I remember playing on the wood playground; you got splinters on it, but it was covered by trees and still cool in the middle of the summer heat. I remember learning to love long drives on winding country roads. I remember nights after church piling into my mom’s small car with my friends and her driving us to Taco Bell.
It’s important to remember these moments. My mom did not get formally diagnosed with Bipolar 1 until a few years ago and, although not formally diagnosed, likely has Asperger’s making social situations difficult for her to navigate. Growing up, my mom homeschooled me so I was with her the majority of my childhood. There
Photography by Raegan Christensen were difficult days. If I’m being honest, sometimes they seemed unbearable. Mental illness overshadowed much of my formative years. She always provided for our basic needs and took the best care of us that she could. I could be bitter or angry that my childhood wasn’t “typical.” I could hold it against my mom that my childhood lacked Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 19
the easy-breezy innocence most of my friends had. I could choose to forget the moments of fun. But that would be a disservice to myself, my kids, and especially to my mom. It’s not her fault she has battled mental illness her life. She would have much rather had a “typical” life, not having to struggle through failed friendships, depression, or misreading situations and responding irrationally. Regardless, she has done her absolute best. She has continued to persevere resulting in her finally getting on medication that helps her regulate her emotions.
She has loved me the best she has been able to my entire life. So, I try to remember the good moments. The moments where my mom’s cycles of mania meant dropping everything and enjoying a beautiful day or avoiding chores. Had it not been for my mom’s preference of animals and plants to people, I probably wouldn’t have learned to identify all types of creatures. When my son asks me what a bug or bird is, I usually can answer and be the hero. Had it not been for her stern enforcement of rules, her high standards for my education, or the deep bouts of her depression that forced me to continue my studies independently for various periods, I may not have managed to get the college scholarships I did. I might not have graduated magna cum laude in three and a half years while juggling volunteer opportunities and two parttime jobs. Had it not been for my mom’s intense attention to detail, I wouldn’t be able to flawlessly fold a bottom sheet. My mom would have cycles of deep depression that would last for a couple of weeks on end. She would sleep the majority of
each day during those cycles. This lasted for several years when I was upper elementary age. This developed a strong sense of independence and capability in me. Had I not grown up needing to fix my own lunches and stay on top of my schoolwork I doubt that I would be as adept at multi-tasking as I am now. I wish mental illness was not part of our family. But the truth is, it is my family’s legacy. My mom is not the first family member to struggle with such illnesses. My great-grandmother was institutionalized during her life in France. I never met my grandmother and don’t know if she struggled herself, but she was definitely influenced by her mom’s illness. What I see through this legacy though is strength.
Strength to continue. Strength to mother. Strength to persevere against all odds. Against a lack of diagnosis, medicines, and understanding by the general populations, these women have done their best to give their families all they could. I don’t sugarcoat the rough days, but I also don’t dwell on them. I trust God’s Word that tells us in Romans 8:28, “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” I believe Isaiah 61:3 when it speaks of God granting “a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning.” I choose to remember. I remember the legacy of strength. I remember that the woman I am today is influenced by my mom loving me the best she can against all odds. I remember the good days.
ABOUT Rachel Schelb is a lover of tacos, kayaking and Diet Dr. Pepper. She is a mom to two small children and a wife to the love of her life, Andy, who is the Minister of Children’s Discipleship at Idlewild Church in Tampa, Fl. Rachel has seen God take the broken ashes of her life and use them to create beautiful opportunities and relationships! Her greatest joy is getting to encourage women of all ages to use their stories to love well on purpose! You can find her on her website at www.rachelschelb.com. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 20
Photography by Raegan Christensen Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 21
the story of A N G E L E S C A B R E R A
I was born in Mexico, but was raised in Dallas, Texas. I would love to share my experience with my first suicide attempt. This is my testimony of how God has helped me in overcoming my mental illness. I was sixteen-years-old at the time, and not really living for Jesus Christ. I knew there was a God and would attend church with my parents, but I did not have a true and deep relationship with Jesus. Unfortunately, I was more focused on my relationship with my boyfriend at the time. After a year into our relationship, he broke up with me and I thought my entire world had ended. I remember feeling rejected, very lonely and utterly depressed. Although I had both of my parents with me, I did not feel I could go to either one of them and open up about my inner feelings. I thought the only solution to ending this pain was taking my life, not realizing the sin I was committing. I remember going to the medicine cabinet and grabbing a bottle of aspirin. I went into my room and took almost the entire bottle of pills.
Photography by Heather Payne
Moments later, I started feeling light headed. My parents found me in my room and saw what I had done. At that moment, I must have passed out Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 22
because the next thing I remember was waking up in the middle of an emergency room.
In those dark times, we can turn to him and he will help us overcome any mental illness we face.
The medical personnel did what is called a gastric lavage. Thankfully, my parents were able to get me to the hospital in time to safe my life.
There are those of us who have to fight these thoughts more than others do, but God allows it for his goodness. I have to believe when the enemy attacks us constantly, it is only because he knows the potential that we have to do amazing things for God.
Although at the time, I was upset that I was still alive. It was not until years later after my parent’s divorce that I started to join a church with my mother. I remember attending a Bible study group; during one of those gatherings, I made the decision to give my life to Jesus. A few years later, I was baptized at my church.
The devil’s ultimate goal is to destroy us, but greater is God than anything else we will ever face! Twenty years later, I still find myself battling toxic thoughts the enemy tries to throw at me. The difference now is I know what to do when things like this occur.
“That was one of the greatest and most rewarding moments of my life.”
For those of you dealing with a mental illness, turn to God and give him your pain. He can turn your hurt into hope. God is able to give us that peace that surpasses all understanding. Just remember God is with you every step of the way. He can carry you through any amount of pain.
The more I have searched God, the more hope I began to experience.
Our families or friends may let us down but God will never fail us. His love for us is far greater than we can imagine.
“God is our Savior and our everlasting Hope. He loves us so much and shares in our pain.”
“For God so loved the world, He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” John 3:16
ABOUT My name is Angeles Cabrera; I was born in Colima, Mexico and raised in Dallas, Texas. I am a single mom to my teenage boy, David. I am very close to my family. I have two siblings; one is my twin brother, Jorge and my younger brother, Omar. My parents divorced when I was a teenager, but we always try to maintain a close relationship amongst all of us. Two years ago, my brother married the best woman, a Godly woman that I am proud to say is my sister-in-law, Samantha Cabrera, who has encouraged me to share my story of my experience with mental illness. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 23
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the story of T R I S H A C A S E Y
I watched the blood ooze from the incision I had just made. Instead of being disgusted or freaked out, I was strangely relieved and satiated. It was a small incision on my left wrist. Small enough that no one would notice but me. My journey with self-mutilation had begun. I was eleven-years old. Cutting became an outlet for me. I did not grow up in an environment where I felt free to express my emotions. Cutting was the way I could release tension and emotional stress. It drowned out my alcoholic father, my mother that I could not relate to, and the anger and depression buried deep inside me. At sixteen, I started my first job at a movie theatre. I was usually stationed at the concession stand where the pretzel oven was located. I would sometimes place my forearm against the lines of the hot rack and feel the heat burning into my skin. I loved seeing the blisters that would form. I do not know why I enjoyed hurting myself but it brought me pleasure and pain. Mental illness is usually linked to some sort of addiction or substance abuse, and I was no exception. I started experimenting with drugs and alcohol at an early age. I attempted to smoke my first cigarette at age thirteen. When the smoke hit my virgin lungs, I coughed uncontrollably. The taste of the tar on my tongue was repulsive. Despite the negative experience, I became a fullblown smoker by age sixteen, and I began abusing alcoholic in my late teens. Then there were the drugs. Marijuana was my drug of choice and I smoked it every day starting at age eighteen. Sometimes I would mix weed, alcohol, and valium. That is when the suicide attempts started. I would be buzzed up and start either cutting or become depressed and suicidal. There were a couple of times when I took a handful of pills and went to sleep hoping I would
not wake up. However, when my eyes saw the light of day, I was thankful to be alive. At twenty-one, I went to see a therapist because I was spiraling out of control. I was hopeful that the therapy sessions would help but it only seemed to make me worse. Delving into my childhood led me down a rabbit trail that opened up old wounds that had never been healed. At the conclusion of the second session, I was diagnosed with depression and bi-polar disorder. I was referred to a psychiatrist so I could get started on a regimen of prescription drugs. When I left the therapist's office that day, I decided that I was not going to let them label me as bi-polar.
Something rose up inside of me and I wanted to get better. I did not know how I was going to do it, but I knew it was not the path I wanted to go down any longer. I was raised in the Christian faith but had clearly got off track during my teenage years. After my grandmother passed, I started attending a church with my uncle. I did not know anyone in the congregation but just being in the presence of God made me weep every time. The Lord began to draw me unto himself by the power of his spirit and overwhelming love.
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Sometimes I would go home and get high after church but God began to convict me.
I can testify that today I am completely drug and alcohol free.
It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but eventually I completely stopped getting high. I also stopped cutting myself around that time. I can honestly say it was nothing but the power of God that gave me the strength to stop.
I turned the big 4-0 in July 2018 and that was a major turning point for me. I did not want to live the next twenty years of my life entangled in the throes of addiction and emotional instability. For the past eight months, I have been fighting the good fight of faith for my freedom from bondage and dysfunction.
I wish I could tell you that I remained drug and alcohol free for the remainder of my adult life, but that was not the case. I did not understand how to walk in my deliverance. After going through a divorce at age thirty, I entered a wilderness period that lasted the better of ten years. I followed Jesus but the lure of alcohol and drugs sometimes got the best of me. I have survived major losses in the past three years and I became very depressed and suicidal at one point. When I realized that I was falling back into the pit of depression, I began to see a therapist again. This time the results were very positive and I was able to work through the lowest points of my grief. There is no shame in seeking professional help because it could very well save your life.
Deliverance is not a one-time event. It is a daily choice that we have to make. In order to be successful in recovery, you cannot continue living in the past. God continually warns us against looking back. He said to forget the former things because He is doing a new thing! (Isaiah 43:19). Sometimes that means we have to release people, places, and things that are not beneficial to our growth or recovery.
Wherever you are on your journey of life, continue to seek the Lord. He will never leave nor forsake you (Hebrews 13:5). He will never give up on you. He will heal your broken heart, restore, and set you free from the chains the bind you (Isaiah 61:1).
ABOUT Trisha Casey is a lover of Jesus and the mother of a twelve-year-old girl named Jayla. She is a writer whose desire is to uplift and encourage other women, and to spread the message of the cross. She loves the beach, traveling, watching movies, and trying new restaurants. She currently lives in the Midwest but plans on living near the ocean again...one day. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 26
Photography by Lauren Grigg Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 27
A common thread I notice in women’s IG bios
“I met your sister-in-law, Alli, this weekend,” I told her.
is that we describe ourselves—even define ourselves—in relation to other people. “So-andSo’s wife.” “So-and-So’s mom.” It’s as if once we get married and have children, our entire identity revolves around everyone else.
“Oh, you did! Isn’t she great?” Lisa said. We continued talking about Alli, who had just given birth to her third baby and had “retired” from a job she loved to stay home with her kids.
Alli. Wifey to Josh. Mama to three munchkins. SAHM and carpool coordinator. I love Jesus, yoga pants, and red wine. YOLO! Or maybe it reads something like this:
Rebecca. Wife to Matt. Mom to Irish twins. Working mama juggling all the things. Minimalist raising two hoarders. Even some women who don’t have children become moms to “fur babies”, as if our culture has placed such a high level of importance on child rearing that raising a four-legged, very hairy child gives a woman more value and significance than no child at all. A Causal Conversation About Identity (*names have been changed) I was at the playground the other day talking with my friend, Lisa.
“Alli’s just wrestling with her identity now that she’s not working anymore,” Lisa told me. “I can relate,” I said. “I’ve stayed home for 13 years and I’m still struggling with my identity,” I laughed, half joking, half not. Gone Girl This isn’t a debate over working moms, stay-athome moms, or the emerging trend of work-athome moms. Rather, this is a discussion about the feeling that swells up in any mom—maybe even every mom at some point in her journey.
This is the feeling that many moms experience after they have children, when they look in the mirror past their jiggly bellies and saggy bra, beyond the bags under their eyes and their limp hair, when they truly don’t recognize the woman staring back at them. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 28
Where is the former student body president? The captain of the softball team? The girl who ran three marathons? Where is the girl who used to laugh all the time and read books just for fun? Forget all that . . . where is the girl who could stay up past 9:30 p.m. and watch a movie on the couch without falling asleep? That girl is long gone. She graduated from college as a bright, shining star and everyone looked forward to watching who she would become.
She went on to teach kindergarten or high school algebra. She commanded a board room or raised money for a nonprofit. She enjoyed book club with her friends, went on date nights with her husband. She served in her church and loved her neighbors well. And then one day, she peed on a stick and her whole world changed. No one knew her name anymore. Instead of calling her Alli, they called her, “Eli’s mommy.” They told her it was the greatest compliment she could ever receive, and she agreed. Until Eli barfed all over her new couch, her husband left her for a 10-day business trip, and she couldn’t lose those last twelve pounds of baby weight. She loved being a mom, but she longed for a life outside of PBS kids and potty training. She wondered when her identity became wrapped up in everyone else’s? She wondered how dads could breeze in and out of the house while maintaining their sense of calling both at home and at work, yet she struggled just to find time to shower.
Thank goodness for dry shampoo. And she wondered when her Instagram bio became the property of everyone else. Wifey to
Josh. Mama to three munchkins. Identity in Christ I have no easy answer for the plight of the woman struggling to find her identity amid pacifiers and Pinterest. Struggling to find meaning beyond baking homemade muffins and volunteering for the PTA. I have written a book on identity and I still crying myself to sleep at night hoping someone notices all of my achievements—as if that will prove my self-worth.
I don’t have an easy answer, but I do have one answer that I go back to time and time again, and this is it: Jesus. Our identity must rest in Him and Him alone. Our identity cannot rest in the ever-changing seasons of life because jobs come and go. People will let us down. Achievements will fade. We will always live our best life followed by our worst downfall. So where do we go when motherhood steals our identity? Where do we go when we don’t recognize the woman in the mirror? We go to the One who gave us our identity in the first place. We go to the God who tells us three truths about our identity:
We belong to Him.
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But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God (John 1:12, ESV)
We are adopted. God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure. (Eph 1:5, NLT) We are chosen. When no one else wanted us, God chose us.
We are set apart for a purpose.
I knew you before I formed you in your mother’s womb. Before you were born I set you apart and appointed you as my prophet to the nations. (James 1:5, NLT)
When our appearance fades, when our achievements wane, when our purpose seems unclear, these truths about our identity remain constant and reliable. And these are truths we should all be proud to put on our Instagram bio.
ABOUT Elizabeth Oates is an author, blogger, and speaker whose family tree was plagued with generations of divorce, addiction, and general dysfunction. Today she advocates for healthy marriages and families, and also encourages women that they are not defined by their past because God redeems and restores the broken. Elizabeth graduated from Baylor University and Dallas Theological Seminary before writing several books. She lives in Waco, Texas with her husband, Brandon, and their five children, including three biological and two they adopted through foster care. You can read more from Elizabeth at www.elizabethoates.com. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 30
Photography by Raegan Christensen
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the story of M A R I S S A B A Y L E R I A N
This is not my story, but rather God's story through me. This story begins much similar to other stories you have read. To begin, I was raised in a Christian home with two God-fearing parents and sister. I went to church and was involved in church groups. When I was 7-years-old, my dad led me to the Lord. I wasn't fully challenged in my faith until high school, but nonetheless, I had a wonderful life behind me and ahead of me, or so I thought. I graduated with a degree in Elementary Education, married a God-fearing man and then embarked on a new life in Arizona after getting married. I want to take a moment to pause and share with you a verse I will refer to periodically: Matthew 6:33, "But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness and all these things will be given to you as well." You see, it’s easy (or not) to seek God’s kingdom and His righteousness when everything is going well, but how can you seek God’s kingdom first when that light in your life is snuffed out, when your sunny days turn into gloom, when you are barely hanging on, just hoping to make it to the end of the day?
How can you lean onto God's strength when you can barely stand on your own two feet? But I tried ever so hard to cling onto Matthew 6:33. I have OCD.
The OCD I struggle with fixates on thoughts and fears. I have been on medication since I was diagnosed, but prior to getting married, my medical doctor advised me to wean off the medication for fear it would cause harm to the fetus. By December 2015, the medication was completely out of my system. I thought that everything was fine, until reality kicked in. My mind was racing a million miles a minute, my husband was yelling at me for repeating my worries over and over, I was losing weight uncontrollably, and I was misdiagnosed as being bipolar from a psychiatrist in Arizona, resulting in consuming dangerous medication.
"Seek first His kingdom and His righteousness." “How God? How can I seek first your kingdom and your righteousness when all these things are going wrong in my life? I’m dying Lord, my husband is blaming me for not getting the appropriate help I need, I’m being left home alone all the time because my husband is at work or is out with his friends, and my family is halfway across the country. Why God? Why? Why are you allowing this to happen to me? What wrong have I done?" In early May, I had to take a leave of absence from my job. A few weeks later, I ended up checking myself into the hospital because thoughts of suicide were consuming my mind. When I entered the hospital, I immediately felt a wave of loneliness, fear, shame, and confusion. I demanded AMA (Against Medical Advice) because I was scared, ashamed, and prideful. I felt that the other patients there needed more help than I did.
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As two weeks went by, these precious individuals became my best friends. During my time in the hospital, I was fortunate to have my family stay by my side. Unfortunately, work took up a lot of my husband's time, thus resulting in few visitations.
When the doctors gave me permission to be dismissed from the hospital, they advised I should be in a supportive environment. So, I moved back home to Wisconsin to live with my parents and began receiving outpatient treatment. Things were starting to get better for me mentally, but I started realizing that my marriage was crumbling. Photography by Heather Payne
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remember thinking, “God, seriously? This is what you want? You want me to be in this room with these crazies? He was saying, “Marissa, look! I love these people just as much as I love you. They may look and act different than you, but they are my children, too. Open up your eyes, my child! Be a light for me.”
Communication soon became minimal, and when we did communicate, we ended our conversation with a hurtful word or two. When treatment ended, I began working again. I had to start small, so I became a cashier at Target. I then worked my way up and soon became a manager. My relationship with my husband declined rapidly, resulting in divorce. I remembered the verse from Matthew…"God, I sought you first, Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 34
but now I’m getting a divorce? This doesn’t even make sense! How are you adding good things to my life?" The divorce process was brutal. There were countless nights I cried myself to sleep. My heart was broken. However, as painful as it was, I was and continue to be thankful. My relationship with the Lord is the best it's ever been at. I've learned to trust Him in ways I haven't before. I sought God first by going to the hospital in Arizona; so here are a few examples of the things He has added to my life: restored relationships, a wonderful job, and a supportive therapist. I am now working at a place I love.
I'm making my mental health a priority, I've been able to share my story with countless individuals, resulting in ending the silence. As I had mentioned at the very beginning, this is only part of the story God has written for my life. He is continuing to show me how to apply Matthew 6:33 in my life. I’m looking forward to continue adding to this story and to spread love and encouragement to people all across the United States and around the world. I challenge you for the rest of your life to seek first His kingdom and His righteousness and watch what He does to transform your life.
ABOUT Marissa feels so blessed and thankful to be able to share God's story through her. During her free time, she enjoys reading, writing, trying new coffee shops, and traveling. She hopes to travel around the country speaking to Christian women about the freedom they can experience while having a mental illness. During her time tin the hospital, God opened her eyes to the love He has for those who have mental illnesses and she wants to exhibit the same kind of love. Marissa believes in spreading love everywhere she goes. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 35
Photography by Lauren Bryant
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the story of M I C H E L L E J O Y
I guess to some degree I’ve always had anxiety.
away and another left my life causing an even bigger hole in my heart than she will ever know.
As I look back on my childhood I see unknown threads of it woven through the spaces of a very sassy little redhead. I grew up in a good family with a sunny view of the world around me. At the age of 13, as happened with many of us on September 11, 2001, I watched the twin towers fall in a place I’ve only ever seen in movies. And after what happened in New York City that sunny autumn day, I realized that the world outside of my home might not be as safe as I once thought. But life continued on.
That was the spring I began having panic attacks. I didn’t even know what they were at first, but a trusted friend asked for specifics on how I was feeling and she said, “Umm Michelle. I think you’re having panic attacks. Google it, they don’t just involve not being able to breathe.”
Fast forward a couple years, I was 15 going on 16. One gray day in late February I came downstairs to my mom crying. She looked shocked – even scared. “Michelle, something has happened to Randy and Verna. Someone came to their house last night and killed them.” My world shattered. Our family friends have been murdered? In the safety of their own neighborhood? Suddenly the safe space of my inner world wasn’t so safe after all. A million emotions surfaced after that day. Fear, anger, sadness, even depression. I stuffed it all inside. If someone asked how I was, I said fine. If someone talked about Randy – who I still consider an adopted uncle – I excused myself and left the room. And so, my formative adolescent years were born in tragedy. It wasn’t until I experienced another tragedy that I realized I had been hiding my grief for 13 years. In the year 2016 I was a youth leader, very involved at my church, and a new homeowner with two young roommates. That was the year grief came in threes. Two youth I had mentored passed
Sure enough, brain fog, tingling skin and spacing out became a regular part of my life that spring, summer and even still. But I kept telling myself it would be ok. I could get through this. Just me and Jesus. As it always had been. But my body kept saying “NO!” and my symptoms persisted. That fall we lost another three family friends and my heart shattered again.
The grief was too much to handle. They were all sudden losses. The kind that felt too unfair for words. I remember sitting in my dining room (I lived alone at this time) making apple pies for a family dinner. I held a knife in one hand and thought “This pain is too real; I need to cut myself to let it out.” And then I thought of my friends who had been killed 13 years before and it was a knife that had killed them and it was then that, in a fit of anger and desperation, I threw my knife across the room and reached for my phone to text my trusted friend. “I am not doing well,” I texted. “Who was that Christian counseling agency you talked about?”
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I don’t remember a lot from 2016 as that is the year I have the most psychological blocking. But my life completely changed. The Christian counseling agency set me up with a wonderful lady who is both a Registered Psychotherapist and a Music Therapist. She is also so filled with the Holy Spirit that she often prophesies over me in our sessions. After a few other tragic losses in my life (which are too hard to tell you about right now) I began taking medication to help me deal with my symptoms. I wish I could tell you that it’s getting better. I wish I could tell you God is healing me. I wish I could tell you the synaptic plasticity of my brain was well. I’m not feeling “better” right now, but I believe I’m on the road to recovery. I haven’t been fully healed yet, but there was the summer of 2017 that I prayed for healing and received 3 months without a single panic attack. I have learned that there is hope even when it seems to have vanished. I have learned that we are stronger together and no one’s pain is any less than the other. I have learned that God has a plan and a purpose and even in the darkest days, hope shines like a beacon guiding me back to his arms. I have learned that research and understanding help more than any medication.
I am still recovering, I am still learning, and I am still here.
And this I know for certain, there is hope in the darkness. In the midst of the darkest moments in my life, the times I couldn’t breathe and depression's ugly grip was on my mind. It was then that I could hear the faint whisper. My Heavenly Father holding on to me and saying “I’ve got you. I will get you through this”.
Keep fighting, Warriors. You are not alone and thanks to God, you never will be. This is what God says, the God who builds a road right through the ocean, who carves a path through pounding waves, The God who summons horses and chariots and armies—they lie down and then can’t get up; they’re snuffed out like so many candles: “Forget about what’s happened; don’t keep going over old history. Be alert, be present. I’m about to do something brand new. It’s bursting out! Don’t you see it? There it is! I’m making a road through the desert, rivers in the badlands. Wild animals will say ‘Thank you!’— the coyotes and the buzzards—Because I provided water in the desert, rivers through the sun-baked earth, drinking water for the people I chose, the people I made especially for myself, a people custom-made to praise me. Isaiah 43:16-21 MSG
ABOUT Michelle Joy is a Support Worker and Music Teacher from a tiny town you’ve never heard of in Ontario, Canada. She has a passion for Jesus, coffee, music, writing, and encouraging fellow mental health warriors. You can read her heart on paper via her Instagram page @wordstorecovery. Floras Magazine Spring Issue I | 39
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