Agreeable Clay.

But who are you, a human being, to talk back to God? “Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, ‘Why did you make me like this?’ ” (Romans 9:20 NIV)

I wish that I didn't struggle with mental illness. 

Relapse days are hard. Especially when people are compassionate and tell you it's okay - it's just a disease like cancer or diabetes......but then again, I've never heard of anyone telling a diabetic to "just try" to give up certain aspects of their illness for Lent. 

People try. They really do. And I have to remember that they are not the Potter. 

I don't like to say that I'm sick. But I also know I am, because there is absolutely no other explanation for the way my brain twists and distorts things. For the terrifying mental aspects combined

with the physical side effects. It's just a mess, and it always has been. 

I ended up sleeping with Charlotte last night, as she was fussing all night with fever. I took her in as she slept - her blonde curls, little fingers, growing legs splayed out beneath her Strawberry Shortcake nightgown. She's three years old and she's beautiful. In one more year she'll be the she I was when I started noticing the darkness. The fear from

events that would soon take place, combined with a brain that would prove broken. 

Even as a little child, I tried. I really did. But I was not the Potter. 

Today is going to be a rough one. I was awake all night, I have two kids with pneumonia and a really, really messy house. Really, now is not the time for relapse and I don't think anything is going to get better by giving into old sins just for a moment of relief, or fighting doing what I truly need to do to feel better and, quite possibly, to stay alive. 

But I will try. I really will. I am not the Potter. 

Who am I to complain to such a brilliant artisan who ignited the sun and painted 

the beautiful red Valentine's roses beside me? 

What right do I have to argue with the master who composes bird symphonies and snow-capped February mountainscapes? 

He knit me together in my mother's womb, and the toxic, broken, hideous mind I received was not an accident. I am not so exceptional that God would single me out by forgetting to mold me exactly as He intended. 

So, forward I march. I don't know what lies ahead of me, but I most certainly do know what's behind and currently chasing me. 

I don't like some of the experiences I've had, and I don't like the way my illness can be unrelenting. All day yesterday, as I disassociated and desperately craved crawling out of the skin that is so intensely uncomfortable and ill-fitting, I reminded myself that the Potter doesn't make mistakes. 

The relapse and failure of yesterday does not have to determine today. He loves me so tremendously, He chose to give me another chance. I've awakened on the front lines again, so I suppose He considers me to be a strong and able soldier. 

This is hard. I'm in a painful space. But nothing compares to the humbling, flabbergasting realization that the Potter loves me fiercely. I am still His clay, and He won't  allow me to dry out or crack beyond repair. I am not fully molded yet, and I have not been forgotten. 

I hate struggling with this illness. But I will not talk back to the One who forms things far more beautiful and able to overcome any darkness or pain I feel or see.