Desperation

I was the fun girl who went through life with my happy face on, even when I was dying inside.

Sometimes I'm still that girl.

Being real is exhausting, especially when you're busy dying inside. You know what I mean?

Some of you do.

Being real is exhausting when you're already spent... physically, mentally, spiritually. When you feel that, regardless, everyone in your life is counting on you to show up with your big girl pants... everyday.

     (Note the word feel, because you haven't told anyone that your big girl pants are in shreds
      and you may need someone else to be Captain Underpants for a day or two... or more.)

Being real is frightening and your happy face is much more comfortable... for everyone.

But sometimes feelings are so big they suffocate.
And crushing, because you've let them pile up.
So here you are again, dying inside.

Despite all this, you don't want to ask for help because:

              You're the strong, dependable one.

              Weakness is embarrassing.
           
              You don't want to bother anyone.

              You don't want worn out platitudes.

              You don't want well-meaning solutions.

              You don't want to talk about it, because that might mean
              you have to own up to your pain and really feel it.

You can go through the motions of life and no one will get hurt, right?

You can just be semi-numb and disconnected, living that bare minimum if I just don't leave any glaring holes no one will notice kind of life. But you know it's a lie.

And eventually, the numbness wears off. Ouch. And that well-worn happy face won't hold back the tide anymore. Now you're just a soggy, bloody mess.

So you blog about it. Finally allowing the pain to flow. And you stand there with your heart's road rash laid bare for your ten followers to see, because you won't publicize that new blog on Facebook. Too many eyes on your truth would feel like air on a rug burn... and you're just not that brave.

Then you work on your follow up blog for days, trying to make sense of what just happened - what is happening - and wanting to reassure those who read your grief that you didn't bleed to death.

     That you're still alive.

     That beautiful sisters stood in all your gruesome mess and prayed with you as you spoke your pain.
     And they understood. They listened. They didn't try to just bandage you over.

     That a daughter sent a grace-filled email that touched your heart... comforting with the comfort
     she has received.

     That you began to see light and lightness as others held your emotions tenderly, reflecting Jesus.
     Being His presence, also real and raw.

In that place of naked, bleeding desperation, a gentle voice from heaven began, even that day, to reveal what He is doing in your mess. To show how He's wooing you back to life... real life. Bringing a balm and sweet covering for your wounds all while showing you the pride you've been hiding behind.

He reminds you that desperation is a place of strength when you're hidden in Him.

And somehow, in the midst of all that still yearns to be made right - within and without -
you know, in your soul, it is well.

For real.


*       *       *       *       *       *       *


I noticed while laboring over all of this, what began as I quickly turned to you. I'm already analyzing that to death, but I'll spare you the rabbit trails.

Though since we're here, is this you? 

Are you hurting and no one knows?

Do you hide instead of asking for help? Even from the Lord?

This is obviously still hard for me, but every time I've come to a place of surrender - of being real about my pain, my fears, my sin - I've also found the path to comfort, healing, and strength.

I pray you'll find the same.

I am bleeding

I am hemorrhaging. Not literally, but it feels that way.

Life is in the blood... and I am bleeding. So much around me is bleeding out.

How can I stand up to this onslaught of life seeping, life-sucking bleeding? Today I feel so fragile and weak in it's wake. Life leaving and lives moved on, taking away community and, ultimately, identity. Though I've watched it happen, I did not foresee identity tumbling, staggering, gasping.

Who am I in this death march?

So much transition, loss, change in five, six, seven years time... and now this.

Jesus, You are still the rock I stagger on. I know You are there, but my heart aches and bleeds with all around me. I have stood up to it so long, but I am weakening. There is only so much... too much...
I feel my legs buckling and my heart caving in. I'm so tired of being strong and steadfast. I don't even want You to be my strength. I want to curl up and close my eyes and be done.

I am weary and I can hardly see You for all the blood.

Yet You bled for all this, too.

I know.

Still, today there is grief and heaviness... and no time to stop. No time to be weak.

For every time there is a season...

This is the season of dying, but no time to die.
This is the season of weariness, but life does not care.
Of losing myself in the bleeding and not wanting to fight anymore.

Not even sure why I think I need to be strong, but I have always thought I must.

How can I care for others when life of soul and spirit are leaking out? Most days I soldier on and fake it with grief dragging like a millstone.

Oh, how I long to really rest in a spacious, life-giving place. How I long to breathe again.

I've known that life before. It seems an age away. Someone else's life.

How I long to be her again...


But, how will I stop the bleeding?


*       *       *       *       *       *       *


Sometimes life is real and my heart is raw. Most days I keep that to myself. 

Today I let it spill. 

The circumstances: too numerous, thus purposely vague. 
My heart: on my sleeve, clearly bleeding.
No pat answers. No platitudes. 
Just a snapshot in real time.

If you're here too, know that someone else is trudging along... and journaling blog-like prayers.  

The Dad, The Daughter, and The Depend-able Airman

I originally posted this story on Facebook, then decided it was too fun not to chronicle here as well. Family stories should be...passed on. 


Once upon a time a young airman was dating our daughter. We'd all gathered for her dad's birthday and, no doubt, had a grand time. Later that night, Dad headed to bed only to find a surprise gift nestled in front of his pillow...a 12-pack of Depends. So hilarious! 

Well played, young airman.

A few months later, while Airman was out of town, Dad talked Daughter into letting him set up a little payback. With painstaking care and devious creativity, Dad hid every single pair of whitey-not-so-tighties all over his apartment...and truck. For months after his return, young airman would find plastic puffy pants wedged in the oddest places...his guitar case, ski boot, zipped into a flight suit... Nothing's quite as fun as a prank that keeps on pranking. "Touché!"

That was seven years ago. Airman is now Captain and married to Daughter.

Today a package arrived from the couple addressed to Dad. Considering they've been in the throes of packing and moving, we had no idea what it could be. As Dad ripped open the parcel, what to his wondering eyes should appear...but nearly a dozen tightly packed pink Depends. 

Hahaha! Dad could hardly stop laughing.

Well played, Captain. Well played. All I can add is...

To be continued.

Hope On Display

Sometimes the ache on the inside 

steals my breath

and grinds my insides

Really? Again? 

Can't this - peopling - ever be simple?

Will hope always be 

mired in muck

always grasping and gasping

for life?


Hope


It is truth!  

Not all this 

...other stuff 

that reeks of death 

and cheerlessness

expectation 

and failure


How long, oh Lord?

And why so hard?

I hate this place...


Yet on these days 

smiles and jestings flow 

Like grace

they save me

bathe me 

in refreshment

and laughter breathing


On these days 

I'll make you laugh

Life force on display

for you 

...for me

For no matter how breath-less   

I will see grace 

I must


Come what may

...and it is here again...

hope will breathe

grace ever-flowing

It's origin far upstream

where no eye has seen

no ear has heard

and no mind has imagined

the goodness prepared 

by Him who is all good


He holds me tightly

...always has

In Him

hope never disappoints

Into this parched

discouraged 

stubborn heart

He will pour love


again


And while I wait

I'll fight

with light and laughter

...hope on display

The smile that hides the battle

but battles on

unquenchable


For hope will have the last laugh

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined

the things that God has prepared for those who love him.
~1 Corinthians 2:9

 Therefore, since we have been declared righteous by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in the hope of God’s glory. Not only this, but we also rejoice in sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance, character, and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.

~Romans 5:1-5

To Be or Not To Be?

The list clamors in my head, "Do this first! No, this! You should! You must!"

I can't bear all this yelling.

Despite some maturity, I still hate conflict. And today, mind curls into fetal position that cries, "Enough! Just care for me! I am not what I do!"

Is this weakness? Laziness?
I don't know.

Is it real need for real rest?
I have no idea.

But it is today.

I do not thrive on dos and shoulds and musts. I never have. I am so out of place in this world of dos. My skin never fits it's demands.

Take me to a quiet place where doing is paced. Tasks, patient. A place alive with listening, watching, knowing. Let me feel and write. My best doing is in being.

I wish it were enough.

Yet, each day has been apportioned for me...

Is my weariness mere rebellion?

So often this battle finds me. Outer reality meeting inward frame. Most days we compromise. I muster courage. Stuff down inner voice and do...stuff.

Yet I always wonder: Is there a place to be in this world of doing? Do I only earn my being by doing? Is joy and breath and fresh air only for those who get their stuff done? 

And even as I rise from pondering, knowing I will do today, resigned soul clamors back it's parting shot,

"To be or not to be? That is the question."

Perhaps it's the voice of Eden lost that keeps me ever longing. An inner knowing that I was made for rest. For knowing and being known.

One day all that was lost will be restored. Until that day I soldier on, by His breath and in His strength, wresting quiet from the truth that one day I will be free...to be.  

Trespassing Darkness

Oh, the thoughts I do not write out loud

The thoughts concealed from others

yet not wholly hidden

The ones weighed heavy

discontent

threatening breath and life


How I'd love to will them away

but no

It doesn't happen that way

I wish it did

It's a lazy desperation

while mired in imaginings

standing as shadow over this heart


Darkness and shadow...


Yes, sometimes I venture there

staying far too long

Roots fingering down

demanding vindication

lengthening oppression

These are not friendly roots

The shadow unsafe

I know this well


For truth stands vigilant

when mind cries vigilante

Truth stands still

and stills my heart

Stills roots that seek

to bind in stealth

...make bitter


How despised, this place I choose to go

These thoughts that trespass holiness

For in them I trespass darkness...

another's kingdom


I have no haven here