bottles of tears & desert places

What a cop out, I thought sardonically.

One sentence from the pastor's prayer reverberated through me: God, You are the answer to every question.

Whatever.

I felt a hard and bitter lump at the back of my throat; hot tears pooled behind my eyes, stinging at the corners. I had plenty of questions. And I had reached out to God with those questions, time and again. Making no effort to disguise my need, I stretched forth my arms and held those hungry questions in my hands. They were hard and cold and He had not offered satisfaction for a single one of them. Starved of answers, they started to feed on my heart, picking at it like buzzards. He knew it and still, He held back and let them nibble at my innards.

At least that is how it felt. Though in my mind I knew God was present and that He cared, in my heart I felt abandoned. And I was so tired of trying to talk myself out of feeling that way.

I don't often attend the monthly evening services at church, but I went that night as an act of faith. I wanted to touch the hem of His robe, to see if His power would course its way through my body and make me whole. But my Comforter seemed out of reach. I imagined Him standing in the shadows, arms crossed and motionless as He took in the sights and sounds of the scene before Him: my arms reaching out for him, my faltering voice calling to Him from a raw throat. If not answers, then comfort please, I begged. Come and find me here.

I wrapped my hands around the edges of the chair in front of me to steady myself. What could I do but wait? I didn't need to know why this was happening anymore or even when it would be over, but could He give me a word, a hope, a bit of comfort -- anything to sustain me? How, God? How is this good? It felt at times as though He loved me in a more generic "I love the whole world" kind of way. I started to feel small and invisible, as if God were too busy with hurricanes, wars, and famines to attend to me.

I started to trust in His presence in the same way I might trust that the Titanic sank: as a true and historic fact, but one that had little in the way of a compelling connection to my present. Nothing could or would change the truth of it, but it was a cerebral truth, one that was acknowledged more or less academically. Asking my heart to believe it was to invite a tension and conflict within myself that was incapacitating. I couldn't make any sense of it, and so I didn't want to encounter it. My heart was a puddle and my head was already splitting; I could not afford nor bear to invite additional strain.

I've been studying the book of Job in this season in order to find a new lens through which to view my own experience. As I wrote my most recent post reflecting on God's silence throughout the bulk of the book, I pondered in the final paragraph:

I wonder what [God] is doing in the shadows as He listens to Job's friends all but accuse him of some vile sin time and again. I wonder what was in His heart as He watched Job scrape at his sores with bits of broken pottery. I wonder what He was thinking as Job and asked why?, over and over again. I wonder how He held himself in silence when Job requested an audience with God so Job could make his case. I wonder how His heart felt as He counted and collected Job's tears.

The last sentence was a new thought for me and honestly, a bit of a throwaway as far as I was concerned. It's something I tacked on at the end of the paragraph, due in part to the fact that I had recently said to someone, "If it's true that God gathers every teardrop, then there is an Olympic-sized swimming pool in heaven with my name on it." The jest belied how deeply my heart was hurting; I desperately wanted it to be true.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I received an e-mail from Sarah that nearly made me fall out of my chair:

... you came to mind. I started to pray, that god would be with you, that you'd feel his nearness, that he'd protect you from the enemy. And then I prayed something I haven't prayed before ... I don't know if I've ever thought it before. I prayed that you would know that each tear you cry is precious to him, that you would know he's catching them all in his hand and collecting them because they matter to him, because YOU matter to him. I SAW it, you crying, him catching.

Now, this never happens to me ... not ever. I mean, I get images, but I don't think I've ever been woken up to pray something like this before.

And then I read what you wrote ...

But the amazingness did not end there. The day after that, I went to Stuff Christians Like, a blog I look at only infrequently. I read this post about feeling too small for God, and what should I read but:

... every now and then I come across a verse that shakes my deep belief that I am beneath God’s radar. One that I love is Psalm 56:8. Here, in what hopefully makes me look pretty smart, is the King James Version:

“Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?”

But maybe you’re not old school, so here’s what the New Living Translation says:

“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.”

I think that’s beautiful. Can you imagine that? Can you picture God doing that? Taking His giant hands and tenderly picking up every single one of your tears? Knowing why they came, understanding what they mean, placing them in His bottle, so that He can comfort you.

In the space of a day, I had been reminded twice that truly: He gathers every teardrop. He gathers my teardrops. He spoke to the ache and the need that I simply had no words to describe. I was reassured that my tears mattered to Him, that they had not escaped His notice. He spoke to the need behind my pleas for healing: He answered my doubts about His presence, about what His love for me looked like, about whether or not I really mattered to Him. I had gone from feeling deserted, as though I was an infinitesimal blip in a crowd of humanity to feeling like I was the only soul on the planet for whom God cared.

My health issues continue to be a part of my current reality, and I won't pretend that those don't matter. I suppose from that vantage point, nothing has changed. But the world as I knew it was turned upside-down when our great big God became small enough to let me know that He saw me, that He collected every single tear I cried and regarded them as something precious. There was nothing generic about it; it is by far the most intimate God-experience I've ever had. He drew me to the desert and whispered His love to me there. And everything changes radically when you know for sure that you're fiercely and dearly loved.

this unnatural fog {part 2}

Read part 1 here.

On the morning of Friday, June 6 at a quarter to five in the morning, the annoyingly cheerful chimes of my alarm steal into my sleep. I roll over and hit snooze once, twice, and a third time, muffling a groan with my pillow: I must get out of bed.

I move slowly these days, as if wading waist-deep through murky swamp water. Lying on my side, I press my palms into the mattress, pushing my torso away from the bed. The cool air pricks my skin, gooseflesh rising on my arms almost instantly. Begrudgingly, I swing my legs out from under the sheets. Like the rest of me, they are stiff and heavy, reluctant to obey my rather unconvincing mental order to move. I yawn and let my head fall toward my chest.

Just one thing is crystal clear in my mind: I don't want to get up.

The last call I received from my family doctor tells me that second blood test shows my thyroid levels are normal. Normal: an appallingly nebulous and strikingly inaccurate word for whatever this is. This doesn’t make sense. I wonder if this is all in my head. I’m anxious to hear the results of the blood work the naturopath ordered. My head is foggy and empty and I can’t remember what he had tested. So many long words have passed over me these weeks, medical terms with too many syllables and not nearly enough vowels.

I rub my eyes and lean forward, standing to my feet. When I get to the bathroom, I look in the mirror and see dull, empty eyes staring back at me. I cannot see myself anymore. I’m not sure where I’ve gone. I've never felt so disconnected from my own flesh.

When I get to Dr. W’s office later that afternoon, I inhale the familiar scent of the old brown house and burning herbs. I sit in the waiting area, thumbing disinterestedly through a natural health magazine. It’s not long before he comes into the office holding my file and a clipboard casually at his side.

Get back here Kirsten, he says with his usual dry humor, gesturing toward his office. I follow him and take a seat in the familiar chair covered in navy velvet. I set my messenger bag down on the hardwood floor and wait as he pages through the yellow sheets of my file and asks me how I am. He should know, I think. I let go of the breath that has gone stale in my lungs, looking to the shafts of sunlight streaming through the window and puddling on the floor near my feet. He keeps turning the yellow pages back and forth, scanning them through his dark-rimmed glasses.

He looks up at me. Your iron is good, your T3 and T4 are fine. Your TSH is within normal range (again with the "normal"). But you’ve tested positive for thyroid antibodies, he tells me.

I’m not sure what this means, not having heard this term before. This alerts me to listen carefully. He explains to me that the supplement I’ve been taking over the past fourteen months to treat my hypothyroidism may have been working too well, stimulating the thyroid to produce TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone). Interpreting the increase as an unwelcome invasion, my body zealously produced the antibodies to subdue it. The fog has a name, then.

Unable to comprehend fully what I’m hearing, I am nonetheless relieved to have an answer and a direction to go with it. I would research antibodies more later and read that their presence typically indicates that an autoimmune failure is just around the corner. As I sit with this new information, it strikes me how utterly dependent I am in this place: that the right tests are ordered, that the right questions are asked, that I trust my physician to be thorough. How long might I have lived in a body at war with itself? What might have happened if I had waited too long? I don't want to consider it.

I leave his office carrying two white bottles: a thyroid support supplement to replace the one I have been taking, and another that is designed to enhance my immune system's ability to function appropriately while also diminishing the extreme antibody response. I hold them in my hand and peruse their labels. Dr. W has been spot on with my health every time before, one physician willing to get at the root cause of my health issues when some others were dismissively prescribing anti-depressants.

I lay awake in bed that night, my mind turning over facts and thoughts again and again; I am restless, unable to fall asleep. But in a good way.

It's because I’m hopeful. And that is everything.

Part 3 is coming...

sunlight photo by kirsten.michelle

Please note: I understand there are many schools of thought when it comes to how to manage one's physical health. I kindly ask that you refrain from posting comments containing disagreement with choices made by me or by my physician. The purpose of these posts is to share my journey through the health challenges I face and to describe how I am choosing to pursue wellness in a manner consistent with my convictions and my own ability to assess what is best for my body.

this unnatural fog {part 1}

I've been trying to come up with a way of describing what the past few months have been like. In a previous post, I mentioned some of the medical issues I was having; without regurgitating details from my ever-thickening medical files, suffice it to say I've had a number of issues to contend with. Or as my doctor told me at my last visit: you've exchanged one melodrama for another.

Or a few others, rather.

Unless you've spoken with me on the phone, you may not have noticed much of a difference. Or maybe you have. I did my best to maintain a presence here, even when it was the last thing I wanted to do. It wasn't so much out of a sense of obligation as it was out of a desire to maintain some semblance of connectedness, to keep my head above the surface when I felt pulled under.

Over the last several months, I've felt a slow descent into what I can only describe as a terrible fog. At first, I was just a little more tired than normal. Less energetic.

About three or four weeks ago, the descent sharpened and picked up speed. I became forgetful, my head cloudy. It required all the abilities of concentration I possessed to maintain my focus visually. My limbs and my body felt unbearably heavy; every movement was laborious. Getting out of bed seemed especially impossible. Unless I paid particular attention to it, my speech became slurred and slow; even my jaw and my tongue felt too heavy to move. I spent all my waking hours in a stupor, feeling as though I was heavily drugged. It didn't matter how long or how deeply I slept. Every day felt the same, my state of being residing in an odd place where feelings of inebriation and profound exhaustion intersected.

I watched my calendar fill with more and more medical appointments: follow-ups, ultrasounds, blood tests. I held carbon copies of lab slips and sat opposite white walls on which clocks ticked away the seconds, oddly colorful gifts of pharmaceutical companies eager to sell little pills with impossible names. I can still see the little holes trailing above a river on indigo on my arm.

For the most part, I stopped caring about everything. I didn't care that I wasn't exercising, that I wasn't blogging (or writing anything for that matter), that I wasn't taking pictures, that any food I prepared all tasted the same -- the things that once mattered so much to me were gone. I learned to fake it: to calculate and make up the distance between my fog and the self I remembered, but distantly.

My days passed and these things I remembered enjoying at one time sifted easily through my fingers like sand. I'd let my hand drop with a heavy thud at my side, not worrying about picking up those things I'd lost. I was just too tired to care, shrouded by a heavy cloak of apathy. Wanting anything seemed a distant possibility; the ability to do much but exist had ceased. Separated from desire and will, I found I wasn't left with much. I felt as though I had been hollowed out. I knew God was present, but in a very cerebral, distant memory kind of way. I wasn't sensing Him – or much of anything -- at all.

I had moments where I seemed to emerge from this, to rise above the surface: to get excited or angry about something, to want to work on a writing piece. Most of the time, these bursts of emotion and life manifested themselves as full and unrestrained tears. My defenses dissolved, I always returned to this place where I felt the throbbing pull at my ankles dragging me under toward numbness, weighing me down. It was a strong and steady undertow that I was too weak to resist.

I was empty. And even now I wonder if it's honest to write any of this in the past tense. But somewhere in the distance, I think the sun is coming up and that maybe it will burn the fog away; I want it to come up.

evening mist photo courtesy of freefoto.com

Please note: I understand there are many schools of thought when it comes to how to manage one's physical health. I kindly ask that you refrain from posting comments containing disagreement with choices made by me or by my physician. The purpose of these posts is to share my journey through the health challenges I face and to describe how I am choosing to pursue wellness in a manner consistent with my convictions and my own ability to assess what is best for my body.

Read part 2 here.

just a weed

Close my eyes and hold my heart

Cover me and make me something

Change this something normal

Into something beautiful

Something Beautiful, Jars of Clay

Album: The Eleventh Hour

I know a story about dandelions.

When my brother was about four or five years old, he proudly set about collecting a bouquet of dandelions for Mom. I wasn't witness to this, but rumor has it that when he told his friend that he was collecting a bouquet for his Mom, his friend told him: they're just weeds, you know.

I can imagine that he went on collecting those dandelions, choking back tears, gathering them into the intended bouquet despite the crushing news that they were just weeds. I have it on good authority that he presented Mom with the bouquet and through a cascade of tears, choked the words: Brandon ... says ... they're ... just ... WEEDS!! Mom was noticeably touched by his gift, understanding that the little boy who plucked and gathered those dandelions did so as an offering of love from a full heart.

Just: such a tiny, powerful word. That word just has been rolling around my insides, bumping up against my interior walls with no small amount of force.

Doesn't it seem just a little bit preposterous to claim that I have anything unique to offer the world? Maybe it seems a little far-fetched to hope that I might leave some spot on this earth better than I found it. No sooner do I permit the thought that my life just might serve to improve someone else's that doubt begins its stealthy approach. Especially as I sit in this season of stillness and quiet.

After all, I am just another single woman. Just another person who has experienced her share of body issues. Just another Christian. Just a blogger. Just another yet-to-be-published writer.

These designations make me sound normal, common even. But if I've learned anything over the last several months, it's this: don't underestimate what a handful of weeds might become in the hands of someone who deeply loves the one who offers them.

I've trusted it for others and if I might be so bold, now I must have faith for myself: that this heart offered back to its Creator might metamorphose from something normal into something altogether beautiful.

dandelion photo by kirsten.michelle

perceiving spring

I keep telling myself it is spring, but winter is putting up a terrific fight. It was sunny and warm enough on Saturday that I wore a skirt and short sleeves to the local farmer’s market. This morning, it was chilly glove-wearing weather. The thermometer told an ungenerous truth: 31 degrees (about -0.5 C). The hills around my home were frosted white, the snow level creeping down to elevations too close for comfort. Even still, tree branches are bursting green with lush infant leaves and even the most delicate blossoms are persisting in defiance of the icy temperatures.

I think it is much the same with me. It spite of all indications that it is spring, it feels as though I’ve been sitting through a kind of winter, one that has cast itself over the whole of my interior landscape. The soil is hard and frozen and the air still and cold. Tree branches are all but bare and even if they had any green life to display, there would be no rush of bird’s wings to stir them to motion. I stay inside wrapped a thick knit sweater that hugs my neck. I wrap my stiff fingers around a steaming mug of tea, drawing its fragrant steam in deeply through my nostrils. I watch the motionless landscape in silence.

But it should be spring: the trip to Florida. The body post. The responses. The writer’s conference. The photo shoot.

So why does a chill still hang in the air around me? Why does it seem as though I’m shrouded in winter?

The truth is, I don’t know.

But I do know that it is spring. I can’t describe how, but I know that there is a torrent of activity in the depths of things: beneath the soil, flurries of life in tree trunks and branches, imperceptible from the outside. Mitochondria are hectic with activity, seeds are dying, casting off their shells and becoming something else. Something alive.

It only appears to be still. Do not be mistaken: it is spring.

spring photo by kirsten.michelle

finding center

I went to the bottom of the ravine, and then I climbed to the top of the hill.

Saturday, March 15 was my first full day at the Mount Hermon Christian Writer’s Conference. I left for Mount Hermon much like I left for Florida, at a quarter to 2 in the morning after just two hours of sleep (luckily there weren’t several inches of snow this time). After checking in and getting my luggage to my little red cabin, I felt in danger of toppling over from fatigue.

But here I was: a writer amongst writers.

I went to the dining hall for lunch and received my first introduction to the two-pronged line of questioning posited throughout the course of the conference whenever I sat with writers, publishers, agents, and editors I didn’t know:

What do you write? Are you married?

After the first orientation session, I reasoned my time would be better spent napping than fighting the urge to fall asleep during one of the first elective sessions. I got my nap that afternoon, but was still competing with the impulse to return to bed over the course of the next day. It was at lunch on Saturday that I was ready to reprint my cards with the answers to the two questions I had already begun to answer automatically: I write non-fiction and I’m single.

I was at the premier Christian writer’s conference and I was happy to be there. But it was during this same lunch hour that I realized that I was getting sick of all the writing talk. These mealtimes (breakfast aside) were a time for writers to talk themselves up and sell their ideas to whatever publisher, editor, agent, or freelancer happened to be sitting at the table. It was a place to secure appointments and make dazzling first impressions. I just wasn’t in that place. And while I was perfectly okay with that, I felt myself becoming a two-dimensional cardboard cutout in the eyes of those around me; I felt as though I was being considered only in terms of my preferred mode of writing and my marital status because that is all anyone seemed interested in knowing about me.

I didn’t try to reason my way out of feeling like I didn’t want to talk about writing anymore. I understood that many had been preparing for these few conference days since the previous year and were ready to be in active pitching mode. I had only known for three weeks that I’d be attending, and now I was here. No wonder my head was spinning. No wonder I felt as though I had taken up residence in an alternate universe where I was learning the language and customs by immersion.

I gave myself permission in that moment to skip the afternoon sessions, knowing my attendance would only exacerbate the feelings I was having. I dropped my bag and my three-ring notebook off in my room, grabbed my camera, and took off down the Sequoia Trail. It was crisp and chilly, but bright. I felt lightened as I made my way down the trail; I was alone, a speck in danger of being swallowed by the redwoods and sequoias that towered over me. I craned my neck back to see if could make out the tops of the trees that I imagined piercing the floor of heaven and tickling God’s feet.

I ran for several stretches along the trail, clearing thick and gnarled roots as though they were hurdles, kicking up damp earth and pulling its scent deep into my nostrils. I was unshackled, free of four hundred strangers. It was just me and Yahweh, traipsing through these magnificent woods together, talking freely and listening intently to one another. I talked to Him about all sorts of things: about the places in my heart where I so recently had difficulty remembering, and the fresh ache that pressed on me when memory came back in a torrent. I tried to speak to Him about new aches to which I was unable to give any shape with my words, so I didn’t force it: I simply exposed my heart let the ache speak for itself.

As gravity propelled me downward, the promise of stillness became closer. The place of narrow questions and big notebooks and lectures and sales pitches felt far away. I was alone but for the sounds of shallow water slinking steadily and slowly over rocks in the creek bed; I heard the low and lonely hoots of an owl. The water burbled on and I could breathe; the space around me felt limitless. It felt as though I was at the center of a circle of quiet; everything revolved around this place that was the middle of all things, motionless as the foot of a compass.

I went to the bottom of the ravine.

It was that evening that they announced there would be a hike Palm Sunday morning to the top of a hill where a 20-foot cross stood watch over Scotts Valley. They would depart from the administration building at 6 a.m.

Rising early enough to make it to the administration building by 6 a.m. was nearly unthinkable; fatigue had its thick claws embedded firmly in my heels, enticing me and pulling me toward a deep and warm unconsciousness. I had been looking forward all day to an early retreat, counting down the hours and minutes until I’d be able to trade my trail runners for my pajamas and wrap myself in the musty blue comforter on my bed.

I walked back to my cabin that night, feeling the pull between my profound and deeply visceral hunger for sleep, and the simultaneous voice insisting I make my way to the cross in the morning. I found myself unable to argue; to contend I was too tired to go to the cross seemed a pathetic argument. He was pulling me; He had hooked my heart and tethered to those two perpendicular wooden beams.

I met about thirty others in the darkness of the early morning of Palm Sunday, the stars and streetlights the only points of light on the mountain. I walked with a woman who was on the shuttle bus from the airport with me. We talked about our faith and our writing in a way that was easy and natural, in a way that didn’t make me feel hemmed in.

The sky was just beginning to release the indigo hues of night when we reached the summit of the hill. The outlines of the cross were beginning to become perceptible. Our guide began telling us the history of Mount Hermon, of the story about that cross and how it came to be there. I really don’t remember much of what he said.

The sun rose, yellow and orange flaming up from the horizon, giving way to blues that darkened on the way up. My fellow wayfarers stood around the cross and began singing hymns.

I really didn’t sing much either.

It was growing lighter with every minute that passed, the deep blues being exchanged for paler shades.

I planted myself at the foot of that cross. The others sang around me while the sun continued to crawl up the edge of the sky in the east. I sat at the bottom of that cross, at the unmoving center of a circle of songs. And I was quiet.

I went to the bottom of the ravine, and then I climbed to the top of the hill.

quiet

I've got to tell you, friends ... I don't really get this whole going quiet thing I've got going on. I don't understand this need I feel to keep secret and to guard those things that have been planted in my soul. I don't understand why I don't feel like saying anything right now.

But that's how I feel.

So much happened for me at the Writer's Conference: things to do with writing but even more than that, things not to do with writing. Things that spoke to those places where remembering hurts; things that I felt pulled toward for reasons beyond my understanding. In truth, a substantial portion of what made that time away so good for me were things that made writing take a backseat. These are things that, while not particularly personal or private, are things that I'm just not ready to share right now. I don't know why.

Like I said, I don't get it. It doesn't make sense to me. But maybe it's because these things are like seeds planted deep in the cool earth, waiting to die and take root; waiting for the proper amount of water and sunlight and time to coax forth life. Slowly green shoots and leaves will push from underneath the ground, and finally one day, bloom.

ravine photo by kirsten.michelle

letter to a friend

Dear Friend,

As I write this, I think of how it's just the kind of day here that you say you love: overcast and cloudy, raindrops pelting the pavement, forming ankle-deep puddles in the landscape outside my window. It's an introspective kind of day and I wanted to share some things with you.

I suppose it's natural that as this year draws to a close, that I pause to look over my shoulder and remember what has been. 2007 has been full for me: two break-ups, a completely funky and undiagnosed stomach condition, a new job, a new house, having my dreams for writing come to the fore, and cutting this brush through the wilds of faith. I think of how our Yahweh brought us together again after years of not seeing one another and how what we have now is deep and amazing and baffling and so full of love and higher things. I have been considering what all these big changes and transitions are in my life, and I can't help but think of how instrumental you have been in helping me move through them: you have been loving, available, and walked beside me even though neither of us understood. Your heart journeyed closely beside my own somehow, mysteriously but unmistakably across the miles. You invited me to walk beside you too, a privilege that is not lost on me. I am honored to have a place beside you, to be witness to the grace and mercy and love that is unfolding and blooming so beautifully in your own heart. How this all happened I can't really know, except that your being here made the going better and kept me moving when I was most in danger of losing steam.

I can't help but think that had it not been for your presence, your ability to be a vessel for Christ, that all those things would have me assuming a fetal position some days, utterly overwhelmed and cowering under the covers, losing hope and faith and lessons and the grace that was mysteriously lavished on me through it all. Watching you helped me to give my own heart and mind and messiness to God with open hands, trusting with the smallest measure of faith that He'd bring something out of it. And now He's truly given me beauty for ashes. Because I've seen God give us abundantly more than we could ever ask or dream or imagine in return for what pathetic little offerings we give to Him, I believe with greater certainty than ever that He truly has us at the center of His heart. It is all too magnificent to comprehend, and this is only a shadow of what we look forward to. I'm in utter marvel!!

You friendship was a buoy when I felt otherwise lost at sea. I know you also encountered plenty over the past year that must have made you feel this way, too. If we had to feel shipwrecked, I'm glad we were together in it, trusting that we'd be swept home by heaven-sent currents.

God is great, my friend. So great. And I just wanted to let you know that you have a lot to do with the fact that I know that for sure.

dissolution of my dichotomies

God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn’t. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down.
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

I wish I had the answers. I wish I were more certain. I wish that after a single great struggle, all those struggles yet to come would cower in its wake and I could just kick up my feet and coast through my days with profound and utter certainty. Perplexity would be vanquished, doubt a thing of the past.

Even when those occasionally intellectual places in myself are functioning at their peak, I somehow continue to aspire to the belief that one day, this absurd fantasy just might come true: it will all make perfect sense, one day all loose ends will be tied. I will experience no more confusion or mystery. I’ll write the book and my work here will be done. I wish.

I wish. I wish. I wish.

Truth is, I’m angry at God right now. After several weeks of avoidance, I really just acknowledged it a few days ago. I cringe at my own words; I do not want to be, but I’m angry with Him, with what He’s doing and not doing in my life right now. On the thinking-feeling scale, I tend to lean heavily toward the former. It’s not that I’m not emotional, but I rely more on my intellect to drive me. And when I have an unpleasant emotion like anger or sadness, I attempt to rationalize my way out of it. Instead of having the emotion and learning to express it in a healthy way, I bargain with it. I negotiate with it as if it were holding me hostage. It hasn’t worked yet, but I continue to try. My propensity to barter with my heart is so automatic that most of the time I do not even recognize when it’s happening.

I’ve questioned what He’s about. As I break into new territory where my faith is concerned, I question why He would choose now when I’m at my most vulnerable to strip those things I’ve relied upon. In regards to my faith, I’ve never felt more stranger and alien; He chooses now to take away certain comforts and place limits on relationships, to make me less understood by those who were once my familiars. To take me to this new place alone, one that I did not actively seek, but stumbled upon in the pursuit of an altogether different dream.

I’ve moved forward in spite of feeling so tentative, in spite of my heartstrings pulling me backward. At first I couldn’t recognize why my forward movement was so timid when my intellect was so persuaded. I recently recognized this familiar pattern: before my heart had the opportunity to recognize anything resembling anger, I attempted to subdue it not only with well-constructed arguments, but with Scripture as well:
Take up your cross and follow me.
No one who puts his hand to the plow and turns back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.
He who loves his father or mother … son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.

But my heart still does not follow. I read the words and I think I’ve got a good handle on what they mean. I just don’t like it; I resist and I wince, knowing what they require of me. I don’t want to draw lines, hold boundaries, or restrict friendships. I don’t want people to think I’m crazy or rash or impulsive. And I definitely don’t want anyone to disagree with or scrutinize my decisions. It seems so petty to say it, so terribly shallow. And maybe it is. No sooner do my thoughts and the feelings they inspire take shape than I realize there is a good answer for them. I am not encountering anything that wasn’t promised. But I still want to scream.

I know that a life of faith requires sacrifice and yet I object to what is demanded of me; I give with a heart that is less than cheerful or generous in the offering. It hurts, I plead. To which my intellect says, so what? God promises us many things; easy is definitely not on the list. So where and why is the disconnect?

What I’ve come to know with increasing familiarity in recent weeks is that there is a gap between God and I that exists by virtue of me being finite and His being infinite. It is vain to expect that I could ever wrap my tiny little flesh-bound brain around God and all his God-ness. I’m fairly certain this -- my inability to understand -- is what lies at the root of my anger and what keeps my reluctance well-fed.

As I learn to embrace my faith in a new way, I am learning to see a far more expansive picture of God than I ever have before. God is the embodiment of what our minds might deem polar opposites:

He is mercy. He is justice.
He is grace. He is law.
He is compassion. He is authority.
He is gentle. He is powerful.
He is comforter. He is rebuker.
He is rest. He is go forth.
He is peace. He is the sword.
He is neither do I condemn you. He is go and sin no more.
He is the lamb. He is the lion.

And the list goes on.

Because of my limitations as a human being, I cannot wrap my mind around how He simultaneously personifies these and countless other seeming opposites in all their fullness. I’m willing to bet these are not opposites at all where God is concerned. My tendency has been to favor one trait over the other or make them entirely circumstantial depending on who I think He needs to be. It makes it simpler for me to break it down, to tend toward an either/or way of thinking of Him, because fully embracing the notion that He’s all these things at once far supersedes my cognitive abilities. Breaking it down gives me the illusion that God’s character is somehow subject to my whims and personal needs. It’s not that I think God is not personal, because I know He is. But if this process has taught me anything, it is that if we present ourselves to Him with open hands asking to be led, He will gladly take us up on the offer and the God we meet may not be who we expect. While I implicitly trust He has our best in mind, that path toward our best may be at times a spare and empty one, devoid of clarity and answers, and perhaps without those peripheral inducements strewn on the path like breadcrumbs to entice us forward.

I can’t make sense of this. God utterly defies the dichotomies I’ve favored and lived by, and all my former perceptions are reduced to ash as a result. He is shattering my former ways of knowing Him; He will never fit in my understanding. The minute I try and wrap my head around any of this experience, boil it down and make sense of it is the minute I make Him infinitesimally smaller than He is.

Perhaps this is why Solomon advises do not lean on your own understanding. Nothing contained within our understandings could possibly allow God to be God. Any god held so neatly within our minds is one we fabricate for ourselves; it is an idol and not God at all.

How am I to grasp that He is one and the same who gives me everything and demands it all in return, who comforts and corrects, who gives grace and demands perfection, who is gentle and who is fierce?

I can no more hold all this in my mind than I can hold Him in the palm of my hand. I must learn to resign my ability to understand and allow myself to be enfolded in Him, to be led by Him. To embrace the fact that even if I don’t understand Him, I know Him. I confess I don’t really know what all this means; I don’t know what it will look like in the thick of daily living. But I expect I will learn. I must in all [my] ways acknowledge Him: lay my whole heart on the altar, even if it is one that is frightened and angry; accept that my mind cannot break Him down into smaller pieces to comprehend Him; trust that the path I’m on is a straight one even if I cannot see where it leads.

One day, I hope I will no longer protest His right to be God or the demand that I entrust Him wholly with all He’s given me. But for now my heart responds to these demands with irritation and reluctance, so much so that there are days I go so far as to wonder if any of it is worth it. I don’t want it to be this way. If I move forward, I want it to be with my heart and not in spite of it. And so I pummel His chest with clenched fists, knowing somehow that He still holds me close. Knowing He can handle my fighting. It hurts so much, I say. I feel like I am breaking.

I know, He says. I know.

For all my not knowing, at least I can hang on to this: that He asks no more of me than He gave Himself. That He loves me. That He understands. That He is good. And maybe that is enough.

give me everything

The Christian way is different: harder and easier. Christ says, "Give me All. I don't want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want You. I have not come to torment your natural self, but to kill it. No half measures are any good. I don't want to cut off a branch here and a branch there. I want to have the whole tree down. I don't want to drill the tooth, or crown it, or stop it, but to have it out. Hand over the whole natural self, all the desires which you think innocent as well as the ones you think wicked - the whole outfit. I will give you a new self instead. In fact, I will give you Myself: My own will shall become yours."
C. S. Lewis Mere Christianity

As I wrote last week, I am still finding my way through the darkness, leaning into the mystery that is God and His plan. He is good, leading me further and deeper by degrees, giving me moments of rest and light. He teaches me slowly, by steps. Patiently chipping away my defects (He has a lot of work to do). Extending my patience by moments. Challenging my ability to trust.

He's asked me to trust what He's already revealed, to put my weight against it. To find it can more than bear what I bring to it.

**and now He asks more of me**

I've recently encountered another impossible situation; one that [by my own assessments] seems to be without hope, one which I cannot reason my way around or through. [this is where I very maturely & wisely throw up my hands & ask why!?] This has had me on my knees, beating the floor, only able to utter the very feeble but starkly honest prayer of

help me

please please

help me

He's also asked me to sacrifice a very particular desire. One that is good, one that He Himself planted. I've had it my whole life. Most people do.

Yet He says
Let loose your grip on it, child.

but it's mine. I want it.
mine mine mine
is what I say.
I need it to be happy.
if I let You have it, it won't be mine anymore.

I've got His gifts in a vice; I've got a deathgrip on what I want.
It's disconcerting to realize how much I've put myself first in this relationship;
God has been unremittingly patient.

I must leave these childish ways behind: demanding my own version of goodness which [**no surprise here**] falls far short of what He will author if I let Him.

it's a small but dangerous word: if

so then.
I keep coming back to the question:

will I trust Him with it?

if I say I will, why am I so reluctant to hand it to Him who gave it in the first place?

will I trust His goodness before my own pathetic assessment of my "impossible" circumstances?
will I trust Him with the desires He gave me, trusting He knows better than I how best to satisfy them [or turn them into something even better]?
and why, oh why must I stamp something IMPOSSIBLE! before I push it in His direction?

Is He not the One who:
divided loaves and fishes, feeding thousands
turned water to wine
healed lepers & paralytics
walked on water
brought Himself back from the dead
???

And I'm concerned about how He'll handle my issues?
really??

I think that just maybe, when I say "impossible!!", God rolls up his sleeves & says:

Ha!! I'm just getting started ...

So I say:
I let it all go [something I will need to do again & again, no doubt]
do what you do, God. I want to see what You're up to.

leaning into mystery

Trust in the Lord with all your heart,

and do not rely on your own understanding.

Acknowledge him in all your ways,

and he will make your paths straight.

Proverbs 3:5-6 (NET)

My heart is so very tired.

This post has been slowly taking form and materializing in my own mind over the last several days. Weeks, really. I've felt as though I've been wandering through a thick fog which, for the time being, is here to stay. I've been fighting against it as valiantly as I'm able, hoping it will burn off. I'm exhausted. I surrender. [insert flying white flag here.]

In terms of relationships, faith, and life in general, I have come to the end of myself. No bridges have been burned, but familiar comforts have been stripped. While being taken to new heights and depths of faith, I simultaneously feel more clueless and uncertain than ever. I have reached a point where there is nothing more I can do. I am concurrently convicted and conflicted. I've come to the end of my own power. It is cold, it is dark, and I am in wholly unfamiliar territory.

Dear God, I am so terrified.

I've prayed for what you might pray for while in the midst of confusion: for clarity, for direction, for wisdom. None of these things have been provided. The only truths that have emerged are these: Faith is a choice, not a feeling. Faith is not for those surrounded by what is comfortable, familiar, or well-tested. Faith is for when it is desperately dark, when you can't see your hand in front of your face, when the next step you take might be over a precipice. Faith is for when your senses and your knowledge fail you. Faith is what you exercise when all conventional wisdom would say it's ridiculous to trust or hope. Faith is for when the only answer you receive is a question. Or when the answer is a deafening silence.

And so I've learned that there will be no clarity, no obvious direction forthcoming, no blaring red lights or voice from the sky proclaiming GO THIS WAY. And my wisdom? I've most certainly stepped outside the bounds of any knowledge or experience I possess. And so I'm left to lean upon God, to obey Him (sometimes blindly), to trust what He's promised. Ultimately, to trust Him. Like Noah did when he built the ark though the earth had never seen a single drop of rain. Like Abraham did when he held the knife over Isaac on the altar. Like Moses, who left behind a life of wealth and privilege in Egypt, having seen "him who is invisible" (Hebrews 11:27).

Nothing makes sense to me right now. I honestly do not understand what God could be up to, and I've given up postulating. But whatever work He is about, I know I'm slowly being emptied of myself and stripped of the things I did not even realize I leaned so heavily upon. I realize this is a good thing, even poetic in a way. To speak of it, it is such a beautiful concept: to be emptied of oneself so Christ can make Himself manifest in you. But may I say, ouch. The process of being stripped, emptied, cleaned out, molded, and refashioned is (at best) an unpleasant one. Tears come easier than prayers these days.

So when I pray, all I ask is that God would make something of all this. When my feelings beg to send me in a direction other than obedience and trust (which is the majority of the time), when I am tempted to reclaim old comforts, I am reminded that the ancients were not commended for following conventional wisdom or for paying heed to the opinions of onlookers. They were commended for exercising faith, for trusting the words of Him who could not be seen. They stood firmly on His promises and commands, building boats, raising knives against their children, defying those once called family.

They must have been afraid, but they did not let this drive them. In spite of what must have been an overwhelming feeling that obedience was insane, they simply did what God said to do. And so their examples shine in Scripture over two thousand years later.

In looking up the Scripture for this post, I looked at the roots for some of the key words in the passage. According to Bible.org, the word bÿtakh ("trust") has a dual meaning in Hebrew: in a literal sense, it means "to physically lean upon something for support" and figuratively, "to rely upon someone or something for help or protection". The commentary expands on this, noting that in this passage, "relying on one's own understanding is compared to leaning on something that is unreliable for support."

I've never thought of my understanding as unreliable. Nor have I ever obeyed God in spite of what (by all appearances) is most sensible. And I'm certainly not accustomed to putting aside the best-intentioned advice of those I'm in the habit of trusting implicitly.

And so my hope is that instead of just paying lip service to an abstract concept of trust, I would really learn to trust Him: that I would press my weight into Him, lean heavily into Him, look only to Him. That I would step forward even when I feel most like turning back.

The Gift of Loneliness

When I get lonely these days, I think: So be lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. -- Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat Pray Love

It is not good that the man should be alone ... -- God, Genesis 2:18

Last week I had the irrepressible urge to watch the film, “Bridget Jones’ Diary”. While hardly a model for moral behavior with her heavy smoking, excessive drinking, and illicit sex, I believe the vulnerable and fumbling Bridget is an excellent partner in commiseration for any single gal.

Even if you possess only a superficial knowledge of the film, the reason behind my inclination will hardly be a mystery. I have quickly been reintroduced to the reasons being a “singleton” can be so frustrating and why, like Bridget, I feel some days like all I can do is stumble awkwardly through my days, flying solo in a world where sometimes, it seems like everyone else has paired off.

Like Bridget, I struggle between the desire to make my way through life confidently and independently, and on the other hand, to be part of a couple. All around me, I seem to be surrounded by smiling couples, all oozing contentedness and telling me things like “someone”, “someday”, and “out there”; these words are intended to be comforting and hopeful, but are too nebulous to be of any use to my heart.

Please don’t think me so naïve as to think that my married friends are swimming in unmitigated bliss all the time; single or married, we all have days where our lives are less than pleasant, and life can be hard work no matter what our marital status might be. Among my advantages I count as a single woman, I love that I can rent the videos I want without discussion, manage my finances as I see fit, or plan trips on a whim without ever having to consult another human being. Singleness does have its benefits beyond spur-of-the-moment travel and hassle-free video rentals, though (it boggles the mind, I know)!

Despite the obvious (and not-so-obvious) benefits when it comes to my relationship status, I have a struggle – one that may not be immediately evident. I have a good life and I desperately want to be content with it. I do not believe I should live in such a way that I am always waiting for something (or someone) else to enjoy it fully. I want to embrace my life and live in the now. I cannot be relying upon the maybes, the not yets, or might not happens. This does not mean I do not challenge myself to reach new goals, or that I don’t find happiness in or have a measure of reliance upon my relationships with family and friends.

I cannot silence the part of me that longs to partner with someone – with one particular someone – in life. The desire doesn’t abate, and it seems to compete fiercely with the contentment I seek. Perhaps it’s because God made us this way – to be in relationship, to be in community. He made us in such a way that there is a portion of our hearts that only human relationships can fill. It sounds so at-odds with what I’ve grown up believing.

Consider Adam and God in Eden prior to the creation of Eve: God gave Adam the task of naming all the animals he had created; Eve was not around for this, and Adam felt a lack of something he probably could not quite identify. I’ll allow Donald Miller to elaborate:

Moses said God knew Adam was lonely or incomplete or however you want to say it, but God did not create Eve directly after He stated Adam was lonely. This struck me as funny because a lot of times when I think about life before the Fall, I don’t think of people going around lonely. But that thought also comforted me because I realized loneliness in my own life doesn’t mean I am a complete screwup, rather that God made me this way.

He continues,

I looked up how many animals there are in the world, and it turns out there are between ten million and one hundred million species. So even if you believe in evolution, that means there were between one million and fifty million species around in the time of the Garden, and Adam, apparently, had to name all of them. And the entire time he was lonely.

I never thought of Adam the same again. … this was a man who, despite feeling a certain need for a companion, performed what must have been nearly one hundred years of work. … So here was this guy who was intensely relational, needing other people, and in order to cause him to appreciate the gift of companionship, God had him hang out with chimps for a hundred years. It’s quite beautiful, really.

Searching for God Knows What, pp 63, 64-65

And so I don’t think of loneliness the same anymore. There Adam was in the Garden, with perfect and unfettered access to God, and he still experienced a longing his relationship with God could not fill. Adam needed another like himself to partner and live with in community. I don’t have this unrequited longing because I don’t rely enough on God or, in Donald Miller’s words, because I am a “complete screwup”. This is the way God created it to be; needing other people is a part of the beautiful and heartbreaking journey.

I was speaking to a married friend the other day about the pithy clichés couples spout to their single friends in an attempt to squelch their disappointment with being unattached, and how thoroughly grating it can be to be on the receiving end. She replied that it was hard to know what to say. Even though I know it comes from a place of love, care, and of wanting to be a help, the last thing I want to hear is something like “there is someone out there for you”, “it will happen when you least expect it”, or “you’re just too intimidating”. Some others I’ve heard are, “God just isn’t done with the two of you yet”, “you just need to get yourself out there”, or “you just need to wait for God’s timing”.

The truth, friends, is this: however true the words may be, there really is nothing that can be said to relieve the deep soul-ache that is being single when you are longing for that unique and singular attachment with one other human being: someone who complements you and somehow causes you to know yourself better. You are not incomplete without him, but somehow being a partner in this relationship causes you to become more of yourself.

I cannot speak for others, but as far as this single-girl variety of loneliness goes, I am not looking for a fix (it is not broken) or a cure (it is not an illness). I don’t need advice on where to meet the good men that are “out there” or to be fixed up on a blind date. I’ve heard good things about some internet dating sites, too. I just want someone to listen when I find the need to unburden my heart; I want someone to connect with me in that moment in order to remind me that I am not as alone as I feel at times.

I truly believe singleness is as much of a gift as couple-ness is, and rather than seeing it as a layover on the way to an eventual destination, I see it as an opportunity to be about the work of my Father and to delve deeper into the exploration of who He has created me to be. I imagine God has work set aside for me, whether or not my future includes a partner. I imagine there will be periods of vast contentedness, and also days where I want to scream and tear my hair out in frustration, asking God, how many more animals could there possibly be?!

So you know what? I’m just going to be lonely sometimes. I will sit with it, I will make a map of it. I will cry and I will laugh with my friends. I will worship with the Body and I will extend love to my neighbors. I will read voraciously and learn more of what it means for me to be a writer. I will pray, I will praise, and let God plumb the depths of my soul. I will keep my eyes, my hands, and my heart open.

And we will see what happens.

Lessons in Knowing Myself

I knew even before sitting down that the writing of this would require a generous glass of wine. So here I sit on my couch with a glass of Rosso sitting on a coaster in my windowsill, ready to be imbibed as I attempt to sort through a massive tangled tumble of thoughts, emotions, and memories from the past fourteen months, attempting to make sense of it all. My neighbor, a musician, is playing his electric guitar next door. It is a melody at once mournful and hopeful –- an appropriate soundtrack for what I am about to write.

This post promises to be a long one –- nearly 2,000 words (even after all the editing I could stand) -– so if you’re brave enough to stick it out, I suggest you choose your poison, get cozy, and settle in for a long read. I don’t know that this will have any benefit beyond my own catharsis, but if you are interested, I invite you to read on.

I am single again. Truth be told, I have seen this moment from a distance for the last several weeks, even months. I suppose it is natural that I avoided it as long as I did, not wanting to acknowledge the unpleasant and difficult (but inevitable) truth. I suppose I hoped that by some miracle, things would change, that my doubts and reservations would evaporate.

To give my reading audience a little context, you should know that Jordan was my first boyfriend. We started dating in April of last year when I was twenty-eight years old. This makes me a bit of an anomaly to have a first boyfriend at that age, I know. I had the odd crushes in high school and college, and even some extended flirtations, but nothing that would be mistaken by anyone (least of all me) for an actual relationship. The years after college looked much the same.

This does not mean I lacked experience where the cultural phenomenon known as “dating” was concerned. I met guys at church, in coffee shops, at the gym, and even subjected myself to being set up a few times. Over the years, I have had more first dates (and not quite as many seconds) than I can count and consequently, could fill a hefty journal with lengthy descriptions of my experiences.

Especially in the years since graduating from college, I became fiercely independent; my Mom will tell you that I have always have been that way. I suppose that the more I matured, the more I grew into myself and became more fully formed as myself. I made decisions on my own, bought my own car, decided where I would live, learned how to balance my work and social lives, managed my finances, traveled, and decided how to spend my time. I hardly found it sad or tragic to go to a coffee shop, a movie, or out to eat on my own. It wasn’t always my preference to fly solo, but if I wanted to do something, I simply did it. I am not the type to avoid going out if there is no one to join me.

It is not that I wasn’t seeking a relationship or that I didn’t want one. However much I enjoyed my life as a single adult, I -– like any woman -– wanted that primary relationship: a potential partner, someone to share a life with. But what few prospects came my way were less than promising (that is a post unto itself).

By the time I met Jordan, I had long since decided that given my dating history, I had better get used to being single. I did not see this as despair or giving up, merely a choice to embrace my reality. There was no reason to avoid living life fully simply because there was not a man in the picture to share it with!

Jordan caught me by surprise. Now I must confess, I am none too adept at picking up on the subtle interplays between men and women, particularly when I am the woman involved. As an employee at the gym where I work out regularly, I thought he was simply being friendly and sociable (as required by his job) when he said hello or wished me a good afternoon. Then at the end of March of last year, he asked me out on a date. This was my first clue that he thought of me as more than a paying member of the gym.

Jordan is a fantastic guy. He was markedly different from anyone I had ever met or been on a date with before. He was completely forthcoming and honest. He was the first guy who had ever maintained eye contact when I answered his questions about my life, my likes, my family, and so on. He extended the standard courtesies most men do on dates (opening the door, paying for dinner, etc.), but offered so much more than that. He was interested in what I had to say and was paying attention to the answers. I was impressed that he was more interested in hearing about me than in talking about himself.

Over the coming months, he would periodically interrupt whatever we were doing or talking about to say, you know what I love about you? The things he would list caught me by surprise: I love your how intelligent you are, I love how much you care about your family, I love how financially responsible you are, I love that you read books and think about them, and so on. I had not met anyone before who seemed to pick up on these things and find them appealing qualities.

Like any relationship, ours had the moments where disagreement or differing points of view would become apparent, sometimes painfully so. We’re both pretty even-tempered people when dealing with these sorts of conflicts, but our backgrounds and upbringings could not have been more different. We adopted a policy of talking about everything, never taking for granted that one would implicitly understand where the other was coming from.

Over the coming months as we began to see and know each other more clearly (the glasses being ever so slightly less rose-colored), things I had previously accepted as extensions of our differences became things I found less able to accept. I learned that the life choices he made and continued to make that I had chosen to accept (or overlook, if you want to be brutally honest) were things that I could not accept as being a part of my life. I had to ask myself: if this is someone I am considering building a life with, can I accept these things as a part of my life?

These were topics we had previously discussed, and thought that I had come to terms with as part of who he was and is. But the more I lived with the choices he was making for himself (choices that impacted me nonetheless), the more I knew these were things that could not, under any circumstances, be a part of my life if I was to be completely satisfied as one partner in this relationship.

These were not my only concerns. As I took inventory of my thoughts and feelings, I found some resentment, some feelings of being taken advantage of, and some regret. In all fairness to him, I did not address these feelings when I had them. I tucked them safely away, hoping that they would suffocate a slow death, deprived of light and air. But instead they begged for my attention all the more loudly.

I also began to see that I never felt supported in the matters that were of greatest importance to me. When it came to sharing my heart with him, trying to discuss things that were vital to me, he was too uncomfortable to sustain the discussion. Over time, I simply stopped trying to share these things with him.

It is not a decision I made explicitly or consciously, it just started to happen that way. I had edited out pieces of myself because I thought it would make our relationship better. It slowly suffocated me (and by extension, our relationship) the more pieces of myself I restrained. What made this most difficult is that I knew beyond a doubt that this was never his intention for me; it is simply a pattern we slipped into. I allowed it as much as he. Once recognized for what it was, I knew this was something that I -- quite literally -- could not live with.

When I finally brought this discussion to the table, he shared similar feelings. He had been feeling a disconnect for some time also. I was able to share my heart openly: that I felt taken advantage of, that it was slowly killing me not to be able to share my true heart with him, and that I did not feel that he was reciprocating the support I had given him. I felt as though I was asking him permission to be my true self.

He was able to tell me that it had been months since he felt like he had a girlfriend. This was more than the giddiness or newness of the relationship fading. There were things vitally important to us as individuals that we were not able to compromise on, but that could not coexist in a relationship without some measure misery for us both. We both realized quite clearly that this wasn’t going to fit.

I bear him no ill will or resentment and wish only the best for him. In spite of all our differences and the way we ignored and then finally and awkwardly fumbled with them, he really is a terrific human being. I look forward to seeing what God has in store for him. I am incredibly thankful that if we had to break up, that it was calm, mutual, and in the best interests of us both. And I am most thankful to have retained his friendship.

As sad as this decision is, I feel incredible relief and joy. Speaking the truth set us both free. Though in the end it was not to our mutual benefit to have stayed together, we both gleaned gifts as a result.

For me, the greatest gift is that I know myself better than ever before.

I know what my boundaries are and that I can and will enforce them. Where I once was tongue-tied, I know how to communicate my deepest and most guarded thoughts and feelings. I know that I want to be with someone who not only accepts who I am, but celebrates it. I know that while opposites may attract, it is vital to have common ground. I can say with confidence that I deserve a partner who complements me, who celebrates me, who supports me, and someone for whom I can do the same with a whole and unedited heart. I’ve heard my friends say the same thing to me, but I never quite believed it. Today, I actually do. I am convinced of it.

I cannot think of this as wasted time. God has used this relationship to reveal me to me; I know myself better than ever before, I know far better now than I did a year ago what I am made of. What a gift it is to be better acquainted with the particular way in which He formed me!

Perhaps this sounds like a bit of idealistic gas, but as crazy as it may sound, this is my true heart. I love and cherish God’s unique blueprint in me and even if there is no particular man in my present (or my future) to appreciate it, it is something I can celebrate.

A Word From the Wilderness: Part 2

Click on the links to see the Intro or Part 1 in this series.

The eyes of all look to you,
And you give them their food at the proper time.
~David, Psalm 145:15

As I noted in an earlier post, during the week of my retreat, I used the book Wilderness Time by Emilie Griffin as a guide. At the suggestion of the author, I created some very basic guidelines for the retreat such as keeping a tidy space, observing regular meal times, and spending time out of doors. These were not rigid rules so much as they were parameters intended to create some sense of routine and continuity, allowing God to work inside that space in whatever way He saw fit; if I saw God leading in a direction outside this framework, I was to follow.

One of the ways I kept to the suggested regularity throughout the retreat was to begin each morning by meditating on a specific Psalm (more about this in an upcoming post). After meditating on and praying through the Psalm, I would go for a walk and speak with God. The first day, I chose one of my favorite wild trails to walk on, just a short distance from my apartment. I prayed for eyes to see and ears to hear whatever it was God wanted me to take in.

It was cool and damp that morning as I went for my walk, and was in fact, still lightly sprinkling. I geared up with my favorite warm jacket, my gloves, and my camera to record what I saw. I felt my senses heighten and sharpen, eager to pay particular attention to whatever lay in my path.

As I walked the two or three blocks to the trailhead, a couple of things in particular caught my eye. In front of one of my neighbor’s homes there was a tire swing hanging off the stout branch of a tree in the front yard. I smiled as I recollected how many times I had pumped my legs back and forth as hard as I could on just such a swing, laughing with the exhilaration that came with rushing to a height, hastening back down, feeling the air rush past and cool my skin. It reminded me of being a child; feeling freedom and laughter, being unburdened by worries.

A few houses down on the same side, I saw a beautiful front yard that seemed to have no design to the planting. It was wild and untamed. There were red and peach- colored tulips, broad-bladed grasses, dandelions, ivies, a blackberry bush, and tree branches both blooming and bare. If there had been a design, it was overtaken by the wild growth, yet I thought it lovelier than many thoughtfully designed and landscaped yards I had seen.

After I reached the trailhead and walked down that familiar and muddy path, I heard the spring song of the birds overhead. The cool, damp air may have pierced my own exposed skin, but it did not diminish the birdsong. For my entire walk, I was accompanied by a symphony of birds overhead. They flitted and darted from branch to branch, their snapping wings and joyful song lightening my heart and my step.

I returned from my walk to my apartment damp and muddy myself, knowing that these things had significance if I would see it. The tire swing pointed toward being childlike, the flowers and wild growth a reminder to seek beauty in unexpected places, and the birds … I could not immediately identify the significance. After pouring a cup of hot herbal tea and changing out of my muddy clothing, I reopened Wilderness Time to a guided meditation the author herself uses when leading a retreat. This is a portion of what I read:

“Give us the grace to be children in your presence. Teach us to be lilies who don’t have to work at being beautiful. Teach us to be unselfconscious like the birds who depend on you and give glory to you with every rush of wings and every shriek of praise.” (Griffin, p. 87)

Reading this paragraph was a revelation; I knew immediately that each of the things to which my attention was drawn had been drawn there by God Himself. The tire swing, telling me to be childlike. The wild and beautiful growth, reminding me that I don’t need to work hard to be beautiful in the eyes of Him who made me. The birdsong reminding me that the birds don’t toil and worry, but enjoy the provision of our heavenly Father, depending on Him utterly.

The images He provided me with spoke clearly: You are my child; be that child. You are beautiful in my sight; you need not strain and strive to be so. I will provide for your every need; depend on me.

These revelations shaped and changed the week ahead in ways I could not yet see. The Holy Spirit stirred inside me, and I did not need to question God’s immediate presence in this week. And this was only the beginning of the blessings of the retreat days set aside.

NEXT:
Part 3: Four Stops Through the Psalms

A Word From the Wilderness: Part 1

As my week of retreat draws to its inevitable close, my head is swimming. The time has been all that I prayed for, and more. How like our Father to exceed even our grandest hopes and expectations!

I went into this week with open hands, letting God direct the time as He would, asking only for rest and refreshment. He provided what I asked and infinitely more than I could describe were I given one hundred posts to detail it all. My heart is full; my head ... oh, my head. I don't think I will ever be able to wrap my mind around the displays of grace, the unexpected provisions, and the overarching sense of God's heart of goodness and love toward me.

He spoke, and I listened. On bended knees I asked, and He provided. I begged that I might see, and He revealed a glimpse of His glory to me.

At first glance, this wilderness time seemed like a vast and empty expanse. As I embarked upon this voyage, I had little idea what I would encounter and the mystery of what lay ahead was not met without some trepidation.

But Jesus met me there. He showed me streams of water and nourishment in the most unexpected places. I found delight as a child in His presence, beheld wild and astonishing beauty, and welcomed the invitation simply to be, to sit at His feet and listen intently, absorbing every word like a thirsty sponge.

But make no mistake: where God is doing a good work, where a soul is moving toward God, the enemy sweeps in from behind and launches an attack. Each day has been met with varying acts of aggression ranging from mere irritants and distractions to piercing assaults on my soul. The enemy is fond of dredging up sins from the past, long ago forgiven. He holds it in cupped hands like a precious gem, rubbing our noses in it so we can inhale its stench, whispering to us of how dirty we are, causing us to question our worth and perhaps even making us doubt that God's grace is big enough to cover that sin. There is a good reason one of his names is the accuser.

Jesus met me even in this awful place, reminding me that while consequences may naturally follow from past actions, I am covered with the blood of Christ. The Father looks at me and sees the righteousness of the One who saved me. I made no agreements with the whispers of the enemy, claiming instead the refuge of the Almighty. One might come who seeks to steal, kill, and destroy. He succeeded in surprising me, but skulked away empty-handed.

It will take no short stretch of time to distill all that took place in the wilderness, and in the coming weeks (likely months) I will highlight the places where I met with God, and He with me. And so I return, and will speak for you all I have seen and heard.