may 23 . 2019

In which I deviate from my usual prose to record how I’m doing in the season I find myself in. 

At the risk of appearing dramatic, it’s been the hardest two months I can remember in a very long time. I feel as unable to escape, or even move on from this season, as I did when my most significant (to date) relationship ended seven and a half years ago. As unable to make the anxst stop as I did when I was plagued by panic attacks. There’s nothing comforting enough to console the sobbing – inward or outward. Nothing to answer the endless and circular questions. Nothing to prove the existence of a plan of safety, of sanctuary, of rest beyond the foreseeable future which includes unsettledness and movement and change (foreseeable future being the next six months…but truly? it’s really anything after today. we are never promised anything beyond this moment, isn’t that right?).

I can’t stop crying. I cry every day, for some reason or another.

For reasons I’ll maybe unpack someday with these black and white letters, I’m moving out of my childhood home. The home on the Mountain that I love so dearly. Where for three decades, I’ve found rest and peace and the safest feeling of anywhere else I’ve been.

I’ve lived on my own before, during the Redding season, but with my current financial situation, I need to live with several different friends for the next one to two years, while I continue to pay off debt and save for the next step. The next six months are “planned”, but beyond that – who knows.

He knows.

And here is what I want to record, what I want to remember when I’m eighty-five and re-reading these little pieces as I prepare my memoir:

I’m grateful for my choice to feel the pain that just won’t go away.

I’m grateful that I can see marked change in myself and my belief about God. That He is not frustrated with my inability struggle to trust Him with this. That He is not angry with me for not declaring the truth and beating my aching heart black and blue with scripture about the good future He has planned.

He knows I’ll get there, to the spacious meadows, green pastures, still waters of abiding trust. He knows that in my deepest places, I absolutely and completely trust Him and know He will be faithful to His promises to me. He’s not afraid of my questions and my doubts and my deep sadness that no amount of dark chocolate or worship music or wise counsel can pull me out of.

He knows that when He shows me what is going on in this season by giving me a vision of Jesus – completely shrouded in darkness, and stretching out His hand towards me, inviting me to cling to Him as we head through the valley of the shadow of death – that though I literally cannot see Him for the darkness, I will feel His hand in mine, and I will hear His voice as He presses His face to my cheek and whispers right into my ear. He knows I will take His hand. He knows I love Him beyond anything or anyone else. He knows there truly is no place I’d rather be than right next to Him as He leads me through this dark and lonely place.

 


Written with a commitment to post within a few minutes of expression, very little spellchecking, and willingness to embrace the inevitable vulnerability hangover.

4 thoughts on “may 23 . 2019

  1. Shocking. Startling and brilliant. Love your writing. Love your heart and your vulnerability. I will be praying for you in this season, my friend.

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