Poetic Perspective by Anna Cosper

I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder at age 14 and have struggled with chronic anxiety since at least that age. For as long as I can remember, I have been an overthinker. I second-guess every move, plot out every possible worst-case scenario, and spend most of my time being scared.
Scared of failure.
Scared of being hurt.
Scared of what I can’t control—the family members I cannot save, the job loss I wasn’t expecting, the chronic pain condition I awoke to on a July morning two and a half years ago that left me nearly dying for the next two years.

There are specific moments in my life I can point to where the foundations of my anxiety were reinforced by trauma.
The time I rolled our van into a ditch after falling asleep at the wheel.
The time I was assaulted at a church.
The countless traumatic medical procedures I endured as a result of my complicated body.
All reasons to be afraid, to never trust, to depend on myself as much as possible, and control whatever I could.
But as much as I am a person of anxious nature, I am also a person enthralled by living a poetic existence and seeking Jesus in every aspect of my life. 
At any given moment in life, I am looking for poetry. By poetry I mean the melody I see flowing through life. The thread that ties all things together into something so much bigger. A way of looking at things that provides perspective and beauty in even the most mundane and messed up of things. I will do anything to find this poetry. I will hold up the most broken, fragmented piece of life and—despite the sharp edge—I will twist and turn that piece around in my hands, trying to find an angle that allows the light to glint off it, sending beams of warmth to cascade across the walls. 

But sometimes, try as I might, I cannot find that angle. Sometimes, I cannot find beauty. Sometimes I tug and tug at that loose thread, but it does not lead me to any enlightenment. I fight to climb only to find there is no higher understanding to be had. Sometimes things are just… ugly. After all, where is the beauty to be found in being violated within the walls of a church? I have yet to find it.
Maybe some things are allowed to be ugly.
Perhaps it takes longer for some things to become beautiful.
Maybe the edges of that broken piece need to be smoothed over by time before perspective can be gained. I have a hard time accepting that. I don’t want to look at something painful and think, “I don’t know what the purpose of that was.” Because it feels like doubt. 
It feels like weak faith. 
But it’s not because I’m not saying I don’t know the purpose and therefore no longer trust God. I’m saying that I cannot, at this point in my life and maturity, see the goodness meant to come from this pain. But I trust that it’s there. Even if I don’t see it. Even if I can’t comprehend it. I trust that there is an angle I’ve yet to find that allows me to understand, at least a little bit, the purpose behind a particular burden. 

I look for poetry everywhere because I’m convinced that there’s poetry everywhere. I see life in metaphors and simile, analogies that evoke emotion, semi-colons that keep a sentence moving forward when—had they desired—the author could have simply ended it. 

If life is a piece of glass, and life in trial is that glass broken, then I want to be the kind of person who will bleed, holding that broken piece to the light in order to find beauty in it.

I think it can be a blessing and a curse—my pension for seeking perspective, I mean. It’s a blessing because it means I have gained a lot of perspective, and it has helped me grow in my faith. But the downside to that is the frustration of not being able to find that perspective, that poetry. 

I suppose that’s where faith comes in. I suppose that is the moment when I must submit my will to God, trusting that he knows, and he loves me, and that is enough. Accepting that I may never understand the “why” behind certain sufferings has been difficult. I am, however, finding it gets a little easier over time, as I continually lay down my need for control and set my eyes on trusting in him. 

Trusting looks like putting down the broken piece, laying it at the feet of Jesus, and taking my hands away.

It looks like reaching out to people when I’m overwhelmed, even though I don’t want to, because I know he uses community to bring healing and comfort. It looks like sitting in my car to pray and being as honest as I possibly can in those prayers. It looks like reciting scripture as I fall asleep so that it trickles like a stream over to my dreams. It looks like being still when my body is screaming to move, taking a deep breath, and moving forward slowly. 
Maybe it looks different for you. Find what it looks like for you and run with it.

I may not fully understand the most painful moments of my life, but I don't have to. Maybe it will come in time, maybe it won't. What matters most is what I do with these broken pieces. I can allow myself to be distracted and overcome with the obsession to understand. I can hold up that broken piece to the light until the sun dips below the horizon and my arms break from the strain. Or I can hand them over. I can appreciate that which I can understand, the pieces that make some kind of sense to me, and I can trust him with the perspectives not yet found. 

Anna Cosper is a college student and English tutor in rural Alabama. She is a blogger and intern for Ann Voskamp’s ministry. She enjoys a good book, a cup of coffee, writing to reach the vulnerable, leading worship at her church, and spending time with Jesus. Anna is passionate about writing about the very real struggles of day-to-day life and finding Jesus in the details of it all. You can usually find her analyzing literature, singing the harmony to every song she hears, and spending time with people that make her soul glad.