Friday, May 11, 2018

Moving Mountains (MATURE THEMES)


DISCLAIMER: This blog post is nearly 2800 words long. I spent nearly four hours writing late last night, and it is extremely close to my heart. The first few paragraphs may drag on, but keep reading, things get more interesting. Don't feel compelled to read it all in one sitting. 

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Sometimes I wonder when the turning point in my life will be. I ask myself when I will finally find the motivation to change my ways and look for a greater path. When will I put down my phone? When will I regain the childlike innocence I once possessed and should have held onto more dearly? When will I forget how precious the good old days were and begin living my life now? I cope using counterfactual reasoning, the feature of our brains my psych professor defines as “mentally reshaping the events of our past to help us cope with what happened.” I should’ve been a better brother. I should’ve forgiven Ryan Vargas. I should’ve loved my sisters when they didn’t have a good man loving them. If I had done these things, would my life be different? Would Ryan have taken his finger off the trigger? Would my sisters have been confident in their identity? What could I have done to help my friends in their distress?
Could I have made a difference?
I feel like my job has always been to make a difference, and I’ve been failing at it for about eleven years now. Story time: I don’t remember the specifics. Rebecca and I were out on our back patio riding scooters, perhaps 2007, when she was two and I was seven. It sounds silly but I had been seething, maybe unconsciously, about Becky taking over the role of “cutie” in our family. I was used to being doted over by my sisters, mom’s friends and pretty much everyone. Rebecca had stolen my limelight. She made some innocent comment that day when we were out scootering, I think she was copying me somehow, and I turned and gave her the meanest glare my face has ever, past or present, delivered to another human being. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know if little Becky even knew what happened, but I remember her wide eyes to this day. It shocked her. She was two years old. Because I still remember this, I have the feeling that I never let go of it. Either I’m still mad at Rebecca all these years later or I still feel bad for what I did, so in order to kill two birds with one stone, I’m going to take them both out right now. As I write this, I’m praying for the healing and anointing of the Holy Spirit to descend upon me as I say these words aloud: I choose to forgive Rebecca Andersen for removing me from my pedestal and becoming the newest member of the family for everyone to dote over. I forgive myself for giving my sweet sister, Rebecca, an evil glare in an attempt to blow out her flame of innocence that so many people found inspiring and adorable. I choose to forgive myself for the resentment I adopted aimed at Rebecca and I let go of any holds that the enemy still has on me today, tempting me to look down on Rebecca for her continued innocence.
Back to my main point: Making a difference. I didn’t become aware of this objective until the first game of my eleven-year-old season on the baseball diamond, 2012. I learned a new word that day. I remember it vividly. The field we were on, the weather, I even remember the kid’s name that said it to this day. “She wanted to go out,” my teammate started. “But I couldn’t find my sweatshirt, so I was just like, f*** it.” My head whipped around and I looked at the laughing twelve-year-old. I had no idea what that word meant. Following that incident, I don’t remember if I googled the word without a parent’s consent or if I asked a friend or sibling what it was, but somehow I found out that it was the worst of all words, maybe even worse than God’s name in vain. It was only then that I realized I was dabbling in something dark; the baseball world. To this point while writing this, I’m sure I have heard more swear words and negative put-downs than I could have ever imagined existed.
I have uttered three swear words on the diamond in my eight year career, and only one of them was heard by a teammate. The first bad word I ever said was during practice, freshman year 2016. It had been a long week and our coach was hitting us fly balls in the outfield. One of the very first ones hit the ground and took a bad hop, skipping past me quickly. “D***.” No one heard it except God and myself. That same practice, not much later (it was a rough day), me and two teammates were standing in the outfield as our coach hit balls to the other players. “He's about to f*** it up,” one teammate said, laughing. I looked to right field and whispered under my breath, almost prayerfully, “Don’t f*** it up, man.” Suddenly I became aware and I looked around to see if anyone had heard it. My teammates were oblivious, so I was safe from them, but I became downcast and realized what had happened to me and the monster I was evolving into. I stayed ultra-alert the rest of the season, at least until summer ball, game one. I had pitched the game of my life against Walla Walla and we had a 1-0 lead going into the seventh and final inning. I gave up a leadoff triple and the lead and my coach pulled me. Walking back to the dugout I uttered one more profound profanity. “S***.” Unfortunately a teammate heard it this time and my Mr. Goody Two-Shoes Catholic reputation went out the window in a blink. I decided that day that no one else was ever going to hear me swear again, and with the exception of my father (keep reading), I have stayed committed to that promise.
I think its made an impact on my teammates. Several of them apologize when they swear in my presence. Others defend me from negative words that may be headed my direction. My brothers protect me, not because they don’t think I can handle it, but because they care about me in a special way and admire my struggle against the grain. So, again, I am going to use definitive words and say now, aloud, my intentions for moving this mountain in my life. I choose to forgive myself for not being diligent and for succumbing to the devil’s temptations. I accept the fact that those days in which I sinned and abused the gift of language are over and helped me become the person I am today. I forgive my teammates, past and present, for exposing me to the darkness of the world and attempting to suck me into it with them.
My third mountain I would like to address is going to make me very uncomfortable. It’s one of the most vile ways satan has pierced my innocence, and it’s the thing about me that I work on the most to get out of my life: lust.
My battles with lust began probably around 13 or 14. At first, it was just an article in the newspaper or a letter to Dear Abby that I probably should’ve avoided, but around 15 years old is when I began to notice there might actually be a problem. My eyes would linger a little too long in the sexualized Sunday ads. There were billboards in town showcasing women in basically underwear. I started noticing female joggers. And then I found Google. The search engine from hell. I knew it was wrong for me to think these things and hold these glances, but I wasn’t proactive and I didn’t have someone to turn to that I felt comfortable with. My mom probably would have answered my questions, but she’s always been so holy and I didn’t want to disappoint her with my dirty questions about sex and these emotions I was just starting to feel. I didn’t receive “the talk” until I was sixteen, and believe me, I was fully aware of how things worked by then. What I didn’t overhear from my teammates, the Body Book told me, and what I couldn’t figure out, Google solved. Ultimately, when I was sixteen I went to a fair in Lynden, WA with my brother-in-law’s 72-year old farmer dad, and he told me EVERYTHING I might need to know about anatomy and what goes where. He taught me all the lingo and effectively doused my curiosity: all by just pointing out body parts on a female cow. Gross.
Those two years were rough as I tried to discover who I was in the eyes of God and why he would ever want a tainted son like me. I remember crying out, banging my fists on my bed as I wallowed in my lusts, looking at what I had become and the people I had let down. I had read self-help books, the entire New Testament, been to confession a thousand times. Lust still owned me. It wasn’t like I was indulging in hardcore porn or watching naked people, fortunately for me it never escalated to that. But those more dangerous things were always lurking at the door, just waiting for me to open it. I was just lustful enough to get by, to satisfy my sexual appetite, but never enough to be that bad. At least I’m not watching porn, I’d tell myself. At least I’m not masturbating. I could be a lot worse.
I became a man the day I turned sixteen. I decided I wasn’t going to go on with lust controlling my life and eating at my soul. I was set free at the driving wheel and I sure wasn’t going to stay in bondage to this dreadful, degrading sin. I began attending morning Mass every day and receiving the Lord in his fullness. I met a friend at Mass, too, a girl my age who was going through her own struggles at the time. We both needed a friend. A holy friend. We went every single day for a year, often talking for long periods of time afterwards about our faith. I noticed my lustful thoughts began decreasing dramatically at this time. They were still tugging at me, but the burden felt bearable, because now the Lord was taking a tiny bit of it every single morning. The ultimate turning point in my life was going on a retreat last summer, right when I turned seventeen. I discovered two things there: first, two young men who I feel absolutely comfortable telling anything to, and second, an authentic identity in Christ I never knew existed. I was challenged to peel my masks off and expose my true self to others, and I dove in, no holds barred. I told those young men all of my struggles, desires, hopes and dreams. I told them how hard it is for me knowing I will never have a wife to come home to, kids to wrestle with, or sleepless nights to enjoy. I’ll never get to walk my daughter down the aisle, watch my son pitch, or know what it feels like to commit your life to someone. Instead I will be baptizing others’ children, marrying off my friends to their soul mates, and retiring to bed early with a precise schedule outlined for the next day.
I went a short time wondering if my struggles with lust were the reasons I really wanted to be a priest. Perhaps I don’t deserve a wife, if I can only look at women as objects. Sometimes I’d think, because of what I’d done, that I deserved to live my life single and joyless.
What I discovered is that no one should live like that. The only reason God calls us to a vocation is because he knows it’s best for us. He wants us to be happy serving Him, not punished for our past mistakes, living a boring life in solitude. I now believe that the priesthood is my true calling, and that with faith, discernment, and a lot of outside help we can get there.
The writing in the last few paragraphs may have left you shocked. Many people were not aware of my struggles with this sin, but in the end, that’s all it is. It’s sin. Is it gross? Yes. Perverted? Most definitely. It’s also just sin. It’s not special, it’s not jaw-dropping, heck, it’s hardly even worth talking about, but I felt that it was something I needed to put out in the open for the wellbeing of my soul. It may have made you uncomfortable as you read it, it may have lowered your opinion of me, but I embrace that. I would rather you have an accurate low opinion than an inflated high one. I’m not trying to say I beat lust or that I have some one-size-fits-all approach. Lust is a daily struggle. The word “struggle” or “battle” implies that there are both wins and losses, and with sexual sin that is true as well. The takeaway I’ve ultimately drawn out of my struggle is that the Lord is much better of a fighter than I am, and so I'm going to invoke his holy name in rebuking the power of this sin over my life. Lord, I ask for forgiveness for letting lust captivate my thoughts and letting my passions take precedence over you in my life. I forgive myself for the actions I've committed in agreement with lust and I ask forgiveness for failing to do what is right. I choose to forgive my father and other leading examples in my life who have not shown me what it means to be a pure man. 
My final mountain I am trying to move is my dad. I am not going to degrade him and I am not going to tell you stories about the things he’s done to me and my family, because that’s not my place. My father filed for divorce from my mom and moved out in November 2017. What he didn’t see in her, I have no idea, but he took off and that’s when all the mayhem started. Me and Rebecca were forced by court of law to go back and forth from our house to his, every other weekend and one night a week. We both absolutely hated it and tried anything we could to get out of it. He said he wanted the best for us, but Becky had panic attacks every time and my grades starting suffering from the loss of study time. There is a lot more story to tell but it’s not mine to relate, so I will just say this: in the last six months I have discovered my truest friends and most honest allies. I have found the people who actually care for our safety as well as the people who couldn’t care less. I’ve discovered that satan will go after the people you love most when you feel helpless and absolutely desperate. And you know what else I’ve discovered?
The Lord doesn’t want us to walk alone. He is strategic and he will take care of his children no matter the cost. He might not blow your enemies out of the water right away, but you can be sure he’s comin’. He doesn’t take lightly that his precious children are getting manipulated and lied to by the enemy. He will fight for us, and he will win.
Everything I have written here is just building up to the fact that we need each other. I, Jacob Andersen, cannot move mountains. I can’t convert my whole team, I can’t do away with my lusts at the snap of a finger. I’m just not strong enough. To succeed I will need each of you, tugging on the rope of virtue in the same direction as me. I might be in a rough spot right now, struggling in seemingly every way possible, but we, you and I, need to remember that it’s not about how we fall. It’s about how we get back up. And the only way we can get back up is with the assistance of our Lord, who feels our pain and desperation and wants nothing but the best for us.
He willingly accepted holes in his hands because he knew that, someday, Jacob Andersen was going to find himself in need of saving in a deep, dark hole of his own. He accepted a piercing to his side, close to his heart because he knew the tears I would cry in my bedroom and he wanted to be as close to me as possible. He accepted a crowning of thorns, degrading himself in return for the lustful glances I would degrade women with. Don’t you see? My mountains matter to him. I fall and fail and lose in every sense of the word, and still he cares. My mountains matter, and he’ll help me climb them.

Love people.
Jacob


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