He Waited With Me for a Long Time

I spent some time on the floor tonight. Lying there in the dark, in a room lit only with a few candles, and waiting, hoping, praying, to meet with Jesus and let the things inside me be stilled, even just for a few minutes.

As I lay there, a line from one of the most powerful books I've ever read came to mind. It's a line from one of my favorite stories in the book, a story I've read and felt touch my heart so many times that as I was laying on the floor, waiting for hope and quiet and peace to come, the refrain of the last line not only played, but I heard the whole story, playing softly. I've spoken often, here, about the ways that Renee Altson's "Stumbling Toward Faith" has touched my heart deeply in just the right moments, (and let me just say that if you haven't read this book, you absolutely must rush out and get it. it's not an easy read, but is quite easily one of the most beautifully profound things I've ever read.) Tonight was one of those nights that it touched me deeply. It was the following story, and particularly the closing line that spoke to my heart:

As part of our connection with God, we read the following passage over and over:

“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the 99 in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over 99 righteous persons who do not need to repent.”

At one point the facilitator asked us to think and journal about what we felt, about what would happen, if we were the sheep waiting for the shepherd, and we saw him coming: what would he say? Where were we? How would we react?

I sat in that church, sprawled on the floor, leaning against a sturdy pillar with my eyes closed, trying to imagine that moment, trying to be that sheep.

My mind showed me a dusty, dark place. I was alone, it was quiet. There was only the occasional moaning of the wind. There were no birds, there was no shade.

I heard the shepherd coming a long way off. He was whistling.

“Hey,” he said to me. “I have missed you. I am so glad I found you.”

He extended a hand to wipe my tear-stained, dusty cheeks.

“Come back with me,” he said. “Come back to the others.”

I shook my head and pulled away.

“No,” I said.

“He looked surprised, but it did not change the immense compassion on his face.

“No,” I said again. “I can’t go back. I don’t want to. I don’t trust the other 99. I don’t want to be hurt again. Please don’t make me be hurt again.”

The shepherd sat down on the ground next to me.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll just say here with you then…”

The shepherd waited with me for a long time.

(Stumbling Toward Faith, Renee Altson, pg. 142-45)

I needed to hear tonight that he would wait with me until my heart is restored and able again to return to the land of the living. And, as I sat there in the semi-dark of my candle-lit bedroom, curled up on the floor, I too felt him settle down beside me, let me lean into him, and simply wait.

Trapped

Of all the things that stand out, as I look back over this crazy last week or so, here's the one thing that stands out the most.

My credit card was canceled this week.

Someone got my credit card number somehow, tried to charge some items that were over my limit, and mastercard security called me and canceled my card. I'll get a new card, sometime in the next week or so, but in the meantime, it's the temporary loss of the credit card that stands out to me.

Because I feel a bit trapped without it.

That little bit of space until my credit limit? That was my escape plan.

That was my "if things get really bad I'll just buy an airline ticket and run" plan.

Not that I would have run.

I tried the running from the things that weigh you down thing multiple times during the depression years. It never worked. You usually just end up alone, and scared, and without the support system that was making life somewhat liveable before you ran.

But not having an escape plan? That is making me feel trapped. Housebound. Stir-crazy.

It's making me feel like this space in life will never come to an end. It's terrifying me in some ways.

I feel trapped.

The rational part of my brain reminds me that credit is money that doesn't exist anyway. And that there is (a little) money in my bank account if I really needed to escape. And that really, in a few more days, I'll have a new credit card.

But in the meantime, I feel trapped in this spot. And wishing for an escape. (Even the non-running sort.)

Spring???

A few weeks ago, I wrote that I was feeling like my heart was caught in the sort of "Narnian" situation that Lucy first encountered when she stumbled through the wardrobe. "Always winter, but never Christmas." Lots of cold and ice and never the anticipation of celebration and spring and new life.

The first day of spring came and went on Friday, and for a rare change, the weather here seemed to cooperate. It offered out a teasing hope that perhaps, even in my cold and tired heart, spring might come.

Turns out the weather is a bit of a tease. Most of the snow was melted yesterday, and there was dry brown grass, waiting for sunshine to perk it up and turn it into the green of spring.

This is the view that greeted me when I looked out the front door this morning:


That, my friends, is about a foot of snow, which fell sometime between midnight or so last night and 8:30 this morning when I looked outside. Or at least 8 inches anyway. And it's still falling. It was over the top of my boots. It took me half an hour to brush George off, and I'd only driven about 10 minutes when I hit an icy patch, slid into a guard rail, mashed up the front driver's side of my bumper (though thankfully without damaging anything essential) and decided to turn around and come home.

So. Always winter...

And I am praying and waiting again for spring. I am clinging to the fact that even in the deep, still falling snow the sparrows and chickadees were singing, trying to announce a change of season to the heavens. I'm finding the tiniest bit of hope in that.

And now, I'm off to lay in a bath. I haven't quite recovered from the new onslaught of winter. And I haven't quite recovered from the onslaught of adrenaline from another car accident of sorts this morning. I'm cold, and feeling shaky again. So, I'm going to try and treat myself a bit gently, and just relax for a while.

More thoughts to come... there are blog posts brewing...