Awake

Paying Attention to What Matters Most in a World That's Pulling You Apart

Anjuli Paschall

• Publisher: Bethany House Publishers
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9780764238529
• eBook ISBN: 9781493435975
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Religion

What If There Is More to Life than What You're Living?

You've felt it--the underlying anxiety that you're missing out on the good life. So you zone out, swipe up, slim down, work hard, and spin in circles trying to get it.

Anjuli Paschall calls it carpe diem syndrome--the fear of not living life to the fullest.

But the full life isn't found by chasing it. It's found by coming awake to it.

As she puts it: "I want to be awake. I don't want to nervously navigate my life one to-do list, email, and espresso shot at a time. When my life comes to a slow halt, I want to know I savored the small moments and watched the sky change color. I want to know I didn't rush through life but received it. I want to know I came to peace with my weaknesses, loved people fearlessly, and walked with God faithfully. I hope I gave in to the audacious belief that I was loved and, miraculously, even liked."

And now, Anjuli casts a compelling vision for you to live a soul-awake life too.

The invitation might be as gentle as a song--or as abrupt as a rooster's crow--but God is always waking you up. You can have the life you really want, and you don't have to lose your soul trying to get it.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Full life is right here.

1
My Name

Wake up to more meaning

My name is Anjuli. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with my name. I love how it looks pretty on paper. I think a “j” in any name is elegant. It is so graceful and, in my opinion, a “j” in cursive is the jewel of all the letters. It’s so quaint, humble, and yet, confident. My name is unique and interesting. But I also hate it. The pronunciation is tricky. At several turning points in my life, I’ve tried to change my name. In college, I introduced myself as “July” and at my MOPS group table, “Jules.” At Starbucks or with any reservation I make, I don’t even bother with all the back and forth and give my husband’s name, “Sam.” Close friends and family pronounce my name “Anjelie.” New friends might say “Ann-Julie.” When I meet someone for the first time, there is always a hint of awkward hesitation because, to be honest, I don’t really know how to pronounce my name. People usually repeat my name back to me with a kind but questioning eye. My response is always the same: “Yes, that’s how you say it.” I smile and move on.

I was named after a book my mom read while her best friend, Juile, was dying of breast cancer. The book is The Far Pavilions, and the main character is a young Indian girl named Anjuli. I didn’t know what my name actually meant while I was growing up, but I would learn soon enough. In the most unimaginable way and from the most unsuspecting person, I’d learn what the name Anjuli means. In my early twenties when my life felt meaningless, a doctor delivering me devastating news would surprise me with the meaning of my name.

My twenties were transformative years. I went through bouts of desolation, the always regrettable decision to cut bangs, and a newfound love for adult beverages. I experienced a lot of silence from God, who had always been so active, safe, and good before. I had mysterious health issues, ended a significant relationship, lost friendships, and moved back in with my parents (every college graduate’s dream). What was the meaning of my life? Not just my life, but life at all.

A sacred tear began. A tearing of skin between my internal world and external world. I couldn’t control the feelings I had been stuffing for so long. I was leaking. For me, leaking looked like locking myself in my room, listening to moody music, lighting candles, and being mad at my mom because she asked too many questions. With a hammer and nails, I hung a queen-sized yellow sheet to my bedroom wall. It draped long and hit the floor. With acrylic colors and the Cardigans playing, I painted my heart on the sheet. In bold black letters, I scribbled Invisible. I pinned magazine clippings and old photographs to my massive wall collage. It was a mosaic of words and stories and short phrases that were welling up inside of me. It was all my brokenness exposed on a bed linen. It was my pain. When I had to go to work or school, I’d take the sheet down from the wall, fold it up, and tuck it back under my bed. Hidden. I put my heart away. I did this every day.

If I’m honest, I’ve been putting my heart away all my life. It wasn’t like I tried to hide. I just did. It was my habit and rhythm and way of life. I didn’t know how to be vulnerable or myself. I was good at stuffing my heart into small places. I was always afraid, and for the first time I was waking up to feelings, thoughts, and fears I had never had before. My heart felt weak, fragile, and embarrassing. To feel safe and secure I’d borrow strength from other people. I’d borrow it from friends, leaders, sisters, or anyone who looked like they had the human thing figured out. I survived by following, learning, and keeping my real self out of sight.

Most of my life, I’ve taken strength from my earliest friend, Krissa. She is candid and loyal and speaks her mind. She is sarcastic and blunt and strong. She doesn’t care what people think about her. If I ever find myself in a situation where I don’t know what to do, I recite these four letters to myself: “WWKD.” What would Krissa do? I examine my situation through Krissa’s eyes, and somehow, I feel more confident. If I’m in a social situation that feels daunting, those four letters pop into my head. I quietly chant to myself, “Be more like Krissa.” The words give me the courage to make hard decisions.

I’ve found confidence from women spiritual leaders. When I had my first speaking engagement, I was terrified. Because I am a pastor’s wife, there is an unspoken expectation to speak publicly (as well as love children’s ministry, know everyone’s name, and be at every event with a smile to name a few others). Though I don’t mind being up front with a microphone, I don’t love it either. The morning of the church’s Christmas brunch I folded my message, printed out on computer paper, in half. I grabbed the book Cold Tangerines by one of my favorite writers at the time, Shauna Niequist, from the shelf. I tucked my words into hers. From the stage, I opened her book and read my message. I held her courage in my hands, and somehow she gave me strength to speak. Her strength transferred to me.

My sister Wanida is another person who is solid inside. She is two years older than I am. I’ve basically followed in her footsteps my entire life. She did show choir, so I did it. She studied abroad, so I did it. She shopped at Abercrombie and Fitch and cut her hair pixie short, so obviously, I did too. I’ll never forget when I was pulling out my heart from under the bed every day and I decided to let her see me. I let her into my locked room, and she sat on my bed. I read to her out of my journal with tears and tissue and lots of over apologizing. Wanida, the one I always leaned on for strength, wasn’t startled or bothered by what I shared. She let me read and cry and go on and on without interrupting. She didn’t try to fix me or give me advice. When I was done reading her my secrets from out of my spiral red notebook, she said, “I believe in you.” She believed I could do the brave work of becoming real. Wanida gave me courage that day. I had been borrowing it from her for so long. She breathed courage into my soul.

We all need soul breathers. We need people who are patient and kind and aren’t surprised when secrets come out. We need people who won’t be shocked when they see the truth or be afraid to hold our pain. We need people who offer grace and freedom and thoughtful questions. I’m not sure if I would have ever had the courage to keep going if it weren’t for that moment sitting on my bed with my sister. So I did the next scary thing. I followed my fear. I became a fear chaser. Because when someone believes in you, anything feels possible. I pulled out my yellow sheet I had methodically hidden away every day. I secured the two corners up high and let the rest unfold to the ground like a scroll. It was as though the skin on the front side of my body was coming down to the floor too. I unlocked the door and let my heart hang wide open on the wall.

It was one moment of courage that led to the next. I let the door stay open. I became less and less afraid of who might walk by or what someone might think about the words alone, afraid, guilty, ugly I had painted in bold black lettering. When my courage was weak, I borrowed it from others. I needed their confidence to help buoy me through. I wish I was naturally confident like Krissa and Wanida and even Shauna (my best friend who doesn’t know I exist). But I’ve always felt nervous on the inside. I’ve always looked for affirmation from others to feel safe. Even when my courage grows, I still don’t feel entirely sturdy, so I keep borrowing courage from others when I need it.

I wrap the courage of others around me like a cape. I think about the cape that Joseph’s father, Jacob, wrapped around him. The robe was sewn with spectacular colors. It inflamed envy, the scariest shade of green, in his brothers. I think about the cloak that the father flung over the shoulders of his prodigal son, who made unforgivable mistakes. He was now draped in holy forgiveness. I think about the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. God became small and was kept warm in a cloth. Jesus used a cloth to wash the feet of His beloved friends and the ones He knew would betray and deny Him. On the dirt floor He bent low, cleaned filthy feet, and dried them with a towel. Strips of cloth wrapped Christ in the tomb. The hope of life was without a heartbeat and bound up in blood-drenched linen.

I don’t just want to take on others’ courage, I want my own. I want courage that doesn’t disappear as quickly as a mean comment on a social media post appears. I need a pill so strong its effects won’t wear off. I’m not sure how to get through this life without courage. I need courage to not lose myself, speak my mind, and walk the long, hard road with people I love. I need something stronger than a cape to protect me when all the lights go out, when people get sick, when I can’t withstand one more punch of rejection. I think courage is less about bolstering up strength or right thinking or a radical change. For Jesus, courage wasn’t mounting an attack, getting bigger, standing taller on a soap box. Courage wasn’t pumping himself up or rousing a crowd with His charisma. Courage wasn’t that He died, but that He walked into death even though there was terror in His heart. He accepted His cup of suffering. He kept walking toward the cross even though He could have run or won the war.

I needed this kind of face-any-kind-of-fear courage as I walked into the doctor’s office the day I discovered the meaning of my name. I didn’t want to go to the doctor’s office. In fact, I’d ignored symptoms and avoided scheduling an appointment with the specialist for as long as I could. I remember walking into the cold building past the trees as barren as my soul. Late fall in San Diego dusts everything with a light frost. I sat awkwardly on the table. The white sheet they made me wear felt sun-dried and stiff. I was nearly naked under it, but sometimes the weight we carry inside of us is heavier than any weight on the outside. The crinkly tissue under me kept sticking to my bare skin. This felt impossible. It was awkward. I was alone. Trying to convince the doctor I was confident and mature enough to be there without a chaperone, I pulled my shoulders back and looked him directly in the eyes. The doctor held up the MRI results like he was mentally doing a math problem. The tumor in my brain was still there.

A tumor the size of a blueberry sat suctioned onto my pituitary gland. It wasn’t dangerous enough to do surgery but was still big enough to cause problems. Cancerous—thank goodness, no. Problematic—most definitely. Terrifying—yes. It wasn’t growing or shrinking, but it was exactly where it shouldn’t be. He gently talked me through the next steps. It would mean medication for a lifetime, more appointments, and the possibility of never having children. He was kind and spoke softly with his Indian accent. He looked directly at me with “Do you understand?” eyes. He scribbled a prescription. Before he handed it to me, he paused. He said, “Anjuli,” and looked up. “Do you know what your name means?” His question caught me off guard. I shook my head. I didn’t tell the nice doctor that not only did I not know the meaning of my name, but I didn’t know how to pronounce it either. He smiled. “Anjuli means the fragrance released from a love offering.” I left the cold room not feeling cold. I left with the answers I didn’t want, but more awake than I had ever been. Meaning changes everything.

I think in my search for the universal meaning of life, I forgot my meaning. This happens though, doesn’t it? We run and push and pull. We hurry, chase, and fix. Then at some point we stop and wonder, What is the point of all of this? What’s the point of me? Why do we frantically manage people’s expectations, sign up for everything, or need the towels folded a certain way? Why do we worry about what the neighbors think, hold on to a grudge from decades ago, or carefully craft a comeback? We go and go and go, blindly forgetting where we are actually trying to get to. This was me. All the while, I was wondering why I was lacking so much courage.

Courage isn’t a virtue that is a manifestation of itself. One doesn’t go to war, fight, and die because of courage alone. No, someone dies on the battlefield or in the arena because a compelling reason drives them—freedom. Meaning drives the action. Meaning first, courage second. Meaning is what I am made of, my substance, and what defines me. If I didn’t know my meaning, I would never have courage. If I don’t know why on earth I’m alive at all, I’ll never catch my balance. I’ll always feel like I’m toppling over. On the day I left the doctor’s office, I knew my meaning. Maybe I had always known it, but I had forgotten. The heaviness of my vices, the breaking down of my beliefs, the persistent pull of other voices, and the hurry-angst of life left me grappling instead of grounded.

My fear and my heart-sheet hanging on my bedroom wall, the courage I just couldn’t get a grip on started to make sense. My soul felt centered. I could face the day with my tumor and my fear and my always shaky soul because God was giving me meaning. Even when I couldn’t make sense of everything, I could keep walking forward with Christ because life had meaning.

The general meaning of my life—like everyone’s—is to love and be loved by God with my entire heart, soul, mind, and strength. I am called to love God with all of me. In all things, God’s glory is the goal. God goes before me and behind me. Much of the courage I will ever need in my small, sacred, beautiful life is this—God is with me. When my insides are weak and my heart-sheet on the wall is exposed, I am not alone. I can walk forward in life with terror in my soul because Jesus is with me. He is with me today as I pour the cereal and wait for the water to boil. He is with me as I wait for the email to come and as I wrangle my internal dialogues. When I walk with God, pay attention to His presence, adhere to His ways, I am loving Him.

But there is also a personal meaning for my life. Yes, one that is just for me. I know the meaning of my one and only life when I reflect on how God rescued me. My story is defined by the ways God freed me from legalism, harmful relationships, and a long season of sadness. My story mounts on moments when I knew I was made to care for hurting souls, buoy the spiritually broken, and guide others back to the love of God. When I walk in step with God’s story of meaning in me, my life releases a rich aroma. I can feel it. Others can almost smell it. When I stay connected to who God has made me to be, I am awake.

I know your life is moving fast. Several hard relationships yank on you. Dozens of complicated thoughts nag on you. Your fears, trauma, and shame linger in you like an endless hangover. You wake up and go, go, go. The pressure to keep going is unrelenting. You don’t have time, space, or energy to deal with anything that really needs to be dealt with, and getting dinner done on time is the best you can manage. I get it. Me too. But sometimes we must pause and ask ourselves, What’s the meaning of it? We have to go back to the original Greek, the starting line, and the drawing board. For me, I had to hammer a yellow sheet to my bedroom wall. We have to ask ourselves, What’s the point of my life?

We must know our why. We must know for certain why we do what we do. If you want to know your unique meaning in this big world, you’ll find it at the intersection of your pain and God’s rescue. When we reflect on our story and the suffering we’ve overcome, we will start to see our meaning clearly. God always gives us meaning. He gives us our names. He changed Abram to Abraham, Sarai to Sarah, Jacob to Israel, Simon to Peter. Our names matter. They define us. Our truest definition comes out of the healing from our deepest pain. What happens when we have nothing determines everything for us, just like it did for Abraham, Sarah, and Peter, whose names changed at the most crucial point in their lives. God meets us right in the crevice of our greatest wounds and wakes us up to His presence. He doesn’t just meet us there but transforms us there.

God gives us all new names (Revelation 2:17). Our new names identify our past and give us meaning to move forward. For example, if you overcame addiction, your new name might be—the one God set free. If you were abandoned, physically or emotionally, by a parent—the one God remembers. If you spent your whole life unseen and God finds you—the one God pursues. If you survived a devastating divorce—the one God eagerly wants. If God made a way for you out of an impossible situation—the one God finds worthy. If God used your average abilities, looks, and limited education to help others—the one God adores. If God brought you out of darkness—the one God shines His light on.

Maybe you need to remember your unique meaning in this big world. You need to know why you exist in the first place. If you’re like me, you need the reminder like notifications flashing, popping up on your phone. They interrupt life but also keep us connected to it. So often we see interruptions as a bad thing. They seem like a detour from the thing we want. But what if interruptions are wake-up calls? What if they are calling you to come back to your why and the way God defines you?

In the Gospel of John, the author repeatedly refers to himself as the disciple whom Christ loved. For years, I read this and was completely bothered by it. John’s audacity to say he was the one that Christ loved seemed so arrogant. But I think I was wrong. I think John discovered his purpose, his pulse, his identity, and the significant meaning of his life. He said it over and over as a reminder to himself and others of this radical truth. John walked into every room, every relationship, every conflict, and every celebration attentive to his meaning. John—the one Christ loved.

What if we took our meaning into our everyday world with us? Our general meaning is to love and be loved by God. Our personal meaning to be a vessel of God’s love to others in a unique way based on our stories. If our souls were suctioned to the meaning God has given us, we would have all the courage we need to face impossible situations. In our quiet moments, fearful ones, dull ones, let our meaning be ever present. Let it be what defines us when we wake up, what inspires us as we walk the long day of arduous tasks, and what determines how we welcome others. Everywhere we go and no matter what we do, we repeat it like...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Endorsements
• Half Title Page
• Books by Anjuli Paschall
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Introduction
• 1. My Name
• 2. RSVP
• 3. The Luckiest
• 4. A Knock at the Door
• 5. There Was an Accident
• 6. Thin Spaces
• 7. Water
• 8. Glass-like Glory
• 9. Dish Towel
• 10. The Monster Is Coming
• 11. This Is Not the End
• 12. Debbie from the Plane
• 13. It Was the Perfect Day
• 14. The Fourth of July
• 15. Palomar Hospital
• Discussion Questions
• Acknowledgments
• Notes
• About the Author
• Back Ad
• Back Cover