Of mice and broken things

I cried about mouse poison this morning.  Well, more exactly, about the need to purchase mouse poison.

I heard it in the ceiling last night - that horrible skittering sound - and I talked myself out of believing it. I convinced myself it was grandma's dog upstairs.  I popped in earplugs to block out ambient noise, and turned up the Grey's Anatomy re-run I was watching on Netflix, and I convinced myself it was okay to sleep, and there wasn't something skittering around in the ceiling above my head, and that it wouldn't come through the pop-out ceiling tiles that my grandpa shoddily put in place decades ago, and land on me while I was sleeping.

It worked, too, until this morning when I heard it again, just before heading upstairs and discovering that the dog was outside.

And then I called my mom and I cried.  Because I needed to go out and buy mouse poison.

More exactly, I cried because this seemed like the last straw in a week that had been filled with hard stuff.

Two different good friends are facing major illnesses in parents right now.

Others are facing major illnesses of their own.

My nursing semester hasn't started off anything like what I was hoping, and I'm playing a waiting game, getting more and more stressed about getting in the hours that I need before the deadline in early December.

It just seems like the last week has been full of hard things in my life, and in the lives of people I love.

And now there's a mouse in my ceiling, making my already ridiculous living situation just that much crazier.

The mouse was the last straw.  I ended up leaving the house, walking to a local bookstore, and browsing until I'd managed to calm myself out of an anxiety attack.

Then I walked home and put mouse poison in my ceiling, and convinced myself that earplugs are a great invention.

I'm drained - so drained that I couldn't even make a decision about what to make for dinner.  I let a friend on facebook do it for me. (I'm going to make a turkey burger and some steamed veggies).

I'm drained, and I'm sad, but I did manage to fight off an anxiety attack today.  And I'm going to have a healthy meal, and then maybe go for another quick walk in the sun, just to gear up for bed.

So I cried over mouse poison, but really, I cried over broken things - a broken world, broken bodies, broken organizations, and a broken house.  And then I got up and did something about the one of those things I could tangibly manage.  And that made me feel just a little bit better as I walked home from the bookstore, and from buying mouse poison and tried to pray.

Daily 5 - Day 344

Today's Daily 5:

1. kit kat bar
2. walking in the cemetery this afternoon.  (I paid a visit to a local Victorian cemetery that I love to walk in... it's a place I go when my heart is really aching, and I need time to walk and think and listen and pray.  I needed that today.)
3. pausing to notice flowers, and smile at them, try to let their beauty penetrate
4. taking photos as I walked... epitaphs that struck me, and flowers...
5. the brief moments when my racing thoughts settled, and there was quiet peace and I could breathe again
6. this beautiful post that Renee wrote, that my heart simply said, "yes" to, because I know that place she describes, in my own way, right now.
7. watching a British comedy/drama television series on DVD with mom and dad and laughing.  British humor really is to my taste.
8. recognizing in a fresh way a gift of grace offered to me in the midst of a challenging conversation last night
9. tears that finally flowed, no longer able to be contained
10. a quiet place to rest tonight at mom and dad's

Shake the Dust

I was watching and listening to this video again from Anis Mojgani.

Shake the Dust.

For me (yes, in spite of the rougher language at moments) this is a powerful image.

Shake the dust.

From life.

Brush off the cobwebs.

These last few weeks have been full of deep aches and brokenness.

In my own heart, and in those around me.

Carrying deep burdens of prayer.

Choosing to love when I'd really rather not.

They've been hard weeks, and I've been feeling down.

Some of that is just physical.  A change in medications that my body is having trouble adapting to.  The wear on one's body and mind from the kind of intense weeks I've been having.

Some is emotional and some spiritual.

I feel cobwebby.  Trapped in this crazy circle of feeling miserable and overwhelmed.

And I came across one of my own old posts, and was reminded that I've been here before.

Shake the dust.

Choose to celebrate hope.

Choose joy and life and peace.

Choose to be grateful for the healing that comes and is coming.

Choose to focus on all of those things instead of the brokenness.

And choose to trust Jesus with the brokenness.

In me, and in all whom I love.

Shake the Dust.

And really, really live.

Messy

I think I recoil from being the messy one.

It's ironic, really.  I've advocated for the value of honest and messy for years now.

But I have an aversion to it, too, from all those years of depression.

A learned response to being the person others drew back from.

It wasn't their fault, or mine.  But it was and is hard to remember that.

That it wasn't me they were retreating from, so much as the questions and uncertainties my own issues raised within them.

The questions the seemingly unanswered prayers for help and healing raised.

I know about those questions.  I lived them too.

But it's left me with a seeming aversion to messy.

I get tired of it quickly.

The emotional valleys.  The swinging moods.  The tears.

I hesitate to share it. 

I tell myself that that is out of concern for others.  I'd rather not stir their questions.

But more selfishly, I'd rather others not see my own questions, my own brokenness.

And I fear, too, a return to depression.

I have trouble leaning into, trusting, the promise of Romans, "The gifts of God are irrevocable."

Even my healing.

And I hide.

From myself.

And others.

I'm needing to make peace with messy again.

To remind myself of extenuating circumstances.

To lean into trusting.

To believe that this, too, shall pass.

To hope.

I started thinking about all of this simply because of a stupid goal.

I'd like to go a full day, sometime in the next week, without bursting into sobs.

Because I'd feel more together if I did that. 

Less messy.

Time to reconcile with messy again, apparently.

It's never pretty, but sometimes so necessary.

Random Thoughts

My thoughts are all over the place this morning.

I'm thinking largely about Haiti.  And praying.

I'm thinking about being a better steward.  Of my finances.  Of the environment.  Of my time and energy.

I'm thinking about hope.  And broken hope, restored.  A dear friend once mailed me a resin plaque that forms the word "hope".  It arrived with the letter "h" broken off.  I carefully glued it back together, and unless you know precisely where to look, it's impossible to see the broken place.  It's become a symbol for us.  Broken hope restored.  And it's the cry of my heart this morning too.

I'm thinking about health.  And healing.  And praying for increase of that.  For so many I care about.

And I'm thinking about the day and days ahead.  The things they're full with.  The moments that aren't yet filled, but will be.

And in the midst of all these scattered thoughts, I'm quietly praying, and longing.

Holding Onto You

I'm thinking tonight about a lyric my friend Karla Adolphe penned...

My heart is praying these words tonight, for myself and some dear friends... and hearing in the last few lines a quieting response from Jesus...

Holding Onto You

I see a million broken pieces on the floor
I can't believe you'd like to add one more
Meet me where I'm living, meet me where I am
All the stars have melted from my eyes
Only you know how many tears I've cried
Meet me where I'm living, meet me where I am
Holding onto you,
I'm holding onto you,
I'm holding onto you right now

Hush little baby don't say a word
Daddy's coming to get his little girl
Hush little baby, don't do a thing
Daddy's coming he's going to fix everything...

(to buy the song, click here, and scroll to the album "The Cathedral" to find the song)

Come to Our Shut Down Places

I have loved, for a time now, the story of Hannah. There are so many secrets wonders in that story, the first chapters or so of 1 Samuel, that Jesus has whispered to me.

Just now, on a day that has been hard and full of tears as I faced some realities about myself again, after a week that began in this impossibly deep space, and carried through many incredibly challenging moments of life and prayer, I read another prayer by Walter Bruggemann. A prayer that the book says he wrote after reading 1 Samuel 1. And somehow, this prayer is touching raw spots in my soul, and soothing just a little.

Come to Our Shut Down Places

It does not come easy to us to imagine that you
closed the womb of mother Hannah
and thereby foreclosed the future for a time.
And yet, we can name in your presence
a myriad of shut down places around us...
those shut down in poverty and despair,
those shut down in fear and in rage,
those shut down by abuse and violence,
too hurt to speak,
too frightened to appear,
too scarred to dance.
And closer, our own shut downs:
in anxiety, in resentment, in pretense,
too weary to care,
too greedy to share,
too much of us for neighbor.
Those are not all your doing, we confess.
But you are the God who opens all shut downs:
by your power, you give futures,
by your goodness, you give hope,
by your mercy, you make new.
So we bid you this day come to our shut down places
and give birth anew.
We pray through the Easter opening of the Friday shut downs.
Amen

~~~

I thankful that Jesus is a God who comes to the shut-down places. Because today, I need that. And today, I'm praying for that for so many I love. For birth anew, in the shut down places. For resurrections promises in moments that feel like Friday burials of all hope and joy.

26

I haven't spoken very openly on the blog (though there have certainly been hints) about the fact that for the last year and a half a number of relationships I highly valued have been in the midst of deep upheaval and brokenness, and, though it deeply grieves me to say it, right now many of them seem to have come to a stopping point. I pray that they are only stops, and not an ending.

The grief over these changes comes in waves a bit, and tonight, as I'm staring at a milestone of sorts tomorrow, I'm feeling it just a bit.

I'll turn 26 tomorrow, and I'll probably talk then about how I actually love birthdays and turning another year older.

But tonight, just for a moment, I'm pausing.

Birthdays are one of those things you celebrate with friends, and, in a year when many highly valued relationships have imploded, it's hard to come upon a birthday and not feel the grief and loneliness of some of those implosions.

So, tonight I'm praying as I have most days this year. I'm praying one of the items from the "be relentless" in prayer list that God and I talked about as the new year began. I'm praying for healing and restoration of relationships, even in the moments when it is impossible for me to believe that this could still happen. And I'm praying for those people my heart still loves, even at a distance, and asking Jesus to meet each one of them, to pour out blessing upon them, to supply all of their needs, and to give them peace.

Not Quite as Planned (Pilgrimaging)

What I'm doing today is not what I'd planned for much of the last year to be doing today.

I was supposed to join a friend for the final leg of her pilgrimage journey, to join her in support and to pray for and with her. Due to a number of factors, practical and deeply personal, it's not going to be possible for me to join her.

Instead, I've chosen to make something of an annual "pilgrimage" of my own. I'm heading to a special spot on top of a mountain. A sort of hidden meadow. The plan is to hike up, and then simply sit for a while. There are, I think, tears that need to be shed (if they will only fall...). There is most definitely the need to pray. And there is a desperate longing and hope that in this place, which Jesus seems to call me to on an annual basis, I will be able to meet Jesus. That he will draw near, and if not speak, simply hold me, and my broken and exhausted heart.

And I'll be joining with my friend in spirit, praying for her as she makes the final leg of her journey, arrives at her destination, and also seeks to meet with Jesus and hear his heart for her. I'm grateful, at least, that God transcends time and distance, and that, at least in prayer, I can draw near to her today, when I can't join her physically.

Easter

Easter began, quite literally for me, with the sound of shattering.

I'd fallen asleep only minutes before midnight, praying against hope to be asleep before the clock turned and the day changed. Needing somehow to wake up in the morning light and simply have it be Easter.

At about 20 past midnight, I woke to the sound of shattering glass, and my roommate moving around.

When I asked about it this morning, she told me that she'd missed the light switch while fumbling in the dark, and hit a picture instead, knocking it from the wall and causing the glass to break.

Somehow, that shattering sound was symbolic. Symbolic of a year in which many things have been broken.

And yet, it reminded me, too, of Easter. Of the curtain in the temple being torn in two, irreparable. God present with all people.
~~~
It was a full day.

The church I grew up in put on a full length play and musical this morning. A series of monologues my dad wrote nearly 25 years ago. "Faces in the Crowd." And so, you stand at the back of Golgatha, and listen as Ciaphas, the thief on the cross, Mary, John, Peter, Nicodemus, Mary Magdalene, a Centurion, and a bystander discuss the happenings of the crucifixion. You are given a window into their hearts. They did a fantastic job with the production - an accomplishment on a grand scale for such a small church.

There were moments that were deeply moving. That hit my heart deeply. The lines of Mary Magdalene, discussing the demons within her, and the way Jesus had freed her from them. The wandering, longing insanity from which she'd been delivered. My brother J. played the role of Nicodemus. A role that fits him somehow - this one with much knowledge, encountering the Christ and finding the fulfillment of that. And yet, there were lines in that monologue too, that were unexpected. A moment where he lifted his hands to heaven and begged for mercy, for Jesus to die quickly in the midst of his pain. And that prayer, too, I understood.

I'm thankful that He is risen. That easter has come. And I find myself praying still for resurrection to come fully within me, within my broken heart, within the hearts and lives of so many I love.

And so, as I pray, for the first time since Friday, since commemorating the death and burial of the Savior, I light the Christ candle that rests on my dresser, and say to the world "He is Risen! He is Risen Indeed! Alleluia!"

Not Breaking the Bruised Reeds

I was deeply struck by this thought from Henri Nouwen that arrived in my inbox today. Partly because I've talked often with a dear friend about the passage in scripture that says "A bruised reed he will not break" but also because, through years of depression, and again through this last year when life has been painful and messy, I've often been dismissed out of hand.

I know what it is to be "the depressed one" or the "broken one" whom everyone assumes has nothing to contribute to the world. The one whom God has forgotten, who needs to be made whole before she can be part of community again.

It reminded me too, to be grateful for those people who have seen beyond the woundedness and modelled the compassionate life and true community for me. People like James, and Shelley, my brother T and his girlfriend, and my roommates. So, today, I'm thanking them, and reminding myself to continue to see beyond the brokenness and look for the beauty in others.

Not Breaking the Bruised Reeds

Some of us tend to do away with things that are slightly damaged. Instead of repairing them we say: "Well, I don't have time to fix it, I might as well throw it in the garbage can and buy a new one." Often we also treat people this way. We say: "Well, he has a problem with drinking; well, she is quite depressed; well, they have mismanaged their business...we'd better not take the risk of working with them." When we dismiss people out of hand because of their apparent woundedness, we stunt their lives by ignoring their gifts, which are often buried in their wounds.

We all are bruised reeds, whether our bruises are visible or not. The compassionate life is the life in which we believe that strength is hidden in weakness and that true community is a fellowship of the weak.

Under the surface

I've been working for a couple weeks now to pretend like life is smooth. And in some ways it has been.

Like the surface of the sea has calmed for a while, but underneath, underneath is a roiling mess.

I managed to keep it mostly underneath. Until tonight.

Now it's all over the place, and I'm sitting here sobbing. My heart hurts. And there is quite literally no human that I'm aware of to whom I can turn.

The cost in relationships this last year has been high. And the few deep friends I have left are far away. At the moment even some of those relationships feel a bit tenuous in the midst of the spiritual storm that I seem to have been unceasingly caught in over this last year. (And that tenuous nature makes me scared, and increasingly, angry at the things causing it.)

My thoughts last night about blessing looking different than expected are ones I've pondered often.

I'll come right out and say that I'm asking a lot of questions of God about blessing. I've been taught (and believe scripture teaches) that obedience brings blessing. I was involved with some things last year that I believed then, and still believe, that God very specifically called me to. But the cost of those has been high, and has played out in every realm of my life, and still seems to be increasing. And I've found myself wondering where the blessing that was promised in the midst of obedience is. And if it will ever come.

Crying out for restoration

A dear friend of mine who posts to her blog very infrequently has posted twice in the last two days, and her words are eating at me. They're not directed at me. She is speaking her heart (and it is one that I love). But for my heart her words are carrying a strong message of conviction.

She spoke in her most recent post about some of the little things around her home, the reminders of deep moments and the promises that Jesus has made to her. I've been in her home, and seen those reminders. And while my own tendency to collect those things in my own home was already present, in the time I've known her, she has taught me much about collecting and marking the things the Lord has spoken. She has also given me several little gifts that mark things about our relationship (one that is deeply important to me) or things that she knows the Lord has been speaking to me.

From where I sit several of her gifts are visible. And several other items that are tied to deep moments we've shared can also be seen.

I cleaned my bedroom from top to bottom a few weeks back. In the midst of a day where the wrestle was strong, and I felt the need to simply silence all the voices, I cleaned. I reordered, reorganized, and generally removed chaos wherever I could. I cleaned the surfaces that are prayer "altars" of a sort in my bedroom, and the temptation was strong to remove many of the items sitting on them, to put them away in a box where they couldn't be visible reminders any longer. Where they couldn't sting.

Because right now the reminders sting. They speak of deep places that in some cases I'd rather forget. They call me to things I'm afraid of, and not always certain I want. They speak of what was, and what subsequently seems to have been shattered. There are a few items in particular that I would much rather have stored safely away in a box, than in plain sight, visible each time I rise to look in the mirror.

When I feel like this, I avoid those "altars" as much as possible. I don't light the candles that rest there, or anywhere else in my bedroom. I don't burn incense, or oil, because those fragrances, too, carry reminders. I don't look at the items on my window sill - some gifts from my friend, a stone from "my" spot in the mountains when I met Jesus there and twirled last summer, a heart shaped stone from Indonesia, some strings of shells from Hawaii, a container of rose petals from various special bouquets this last year, and some pieces of driftwood I gathered from a lake shore when I was there with friends last July. I try not to make eye contact with the photos that hang on the wall across from my bed, one of a lake, and one of a spot my heart has been called to visit.

And yet, I can't avoid them either. I have slept for several weeks now wrapped in two scarves, both symbols of prayer and reminders of deep things the Lord is speaking. I tried last night to lay down without wrapping myself in the scarves. I was peaceful, and felt I didn't need them. I couldn't do it. Within moments I was sitting up, and reaching for them, wrapping them around me before laying back down to sleep. I wear a few of those reminders on a daily basis - a ring, and a necklace and a bracelet, each speaking of different deep moments.

And I have felt the tug of all these things scattered around my space deeply.

My friend spoke in the writing she shared on her blog these last few days of finding her feet again, and returning to the promises spoken. Of believing and standing amidst these things.

And I have resented the reminders scattered around my space. Even the reminders I wear each day, or fall asleep wrapped in. I have resented the deep pull of Jesus on my heart and life. I have wanted nothing so badly as to be "normal". I have resented that so many of the deepest moments of this last year, so many of the things scattered around my room also speak of moments of deep pain and sorrow.

The photo of the place my heart longs to go speaks of a dream, and a calling of Jesus to me. It also speaks of a shattered dream. Of fear of traveling to pray with friends. Of a hesitancy and brokenness I don't know how to handle.

The railway spikes on one of the altars speak of a moment when I found family. I found the place in which I belonged, I fit. They also speak of the deep shattering that has taken place within that family in the last year. Of anger and frustration and pain. Of a year of tears and wondering and struggling.

There is a tiny gold camel from Pakistan. A gift from missionaries when I was a child, but also a reminder of a very dear friend who is serving the Lord in that country now. And a reminder of some painful words. Of moments when the direction the Lord is taking my life has been unseen, or judged because it is not understood. (And how can I expect someone else to understand that which I am hardly able to accept or comprehend?)

There are stones and wine corks. Goblets. A tiny rose pin. Three pure white candles. A stone cross handmade into a necklace. A cross from my graduation and a rosary hanging over another photo. Five stones with words etched in them. Bits of wax left from the advent candles I burned and prayed with. Scarves. Palm leaves and willow branches. A tiny oil lamp from Israel. A medal and a tassel from Rome. Coins. Two boxed baptism candles.

And I have been tempted at moments to pack each and every one of them away. To simply move on. To box up a season of my life, and shut it down. To declare something new and create a life out of it. To close off the deepest parts of myself because while they have held the deepest joy, they have also carried immeasurable sorrow. I am tempted to purge these things from my life.

But I can't. And I have resented that too. That in becoming more and more fully myself, I have encountered such shattering, such deep pain.

I have been tired and angry, and haven't known what to do with those feelings.

And reading my friend's words these last few days has caused much of this to surface within my own heart. In part because I love her heart. And in part because of an awareness of how far my own is at times from where I'd like it to be.

I read her words about finding her feet again, and I am glad, because I love her deeply and desire that for her. I also wrestle with jealousy, because in these moments where she is finding her footing, I have been feeling like I have lost what little hope and footing I had left.

Just over a year ago, in an impossibly deep moment, I confessed to the Lord and a friend that I could stand amidst the storms. That I could fight. That I had been hearing him say that to me, and ignoring it, because I didn't want to stand or fight. That I didn't want that to be part of my reality. I haven't regretted that confession, and yet, I have regretted it nearly every day of the year that has followed.

I am discovering that this journey with Jesus is highly confusing and full of paradox.

That joy and sorrow seem far closer together than I dreamed was possible.

My heart is being stretched and tugged and shattered and pierced.

I sat and listened to an African children's choir last week, and fought tears I didn't understand.

I look at the photo on my wall of a place that I know unequivocally that the Lord has asked me to visit. To go to, and pray, and speak some words of scripture, and I remember that same passage of scripture echoing in a hall where diplomats of the world have gathered. And I remember too the division in that moment. I look at it and remember that Jesus told me not to make that trip alone. To have companions for the journey. And I remember how many relationships have fallen to pieces since and because of the last trip where he asked me to travel and pray with friends.

I look at a ring on my finger - a placeholder until just the right ring presents itself, and I remember a moment of deep vows near a lake. And I remember too how quickly those statements of choice were tested.

I see the coin resting on the frame of my mirror and remember a dream I had and a moment to deep to be publicly shared. And I remember how quickly it too became a source of conflict and division

There are moments when I feel as if life has become a ridiculous sort of balancing act, and I wonder if that is healthy.

Abba, I confess that my heart has ached. That I have resented the reminders of the things you've done, and the promises you've spoken that are scattered around my space. That I've been angry that this life that you've offered me has been so marked by pain. I admit that I don't understand, and that that lack of understanding really bothers me. That I have been jealous of those who seem more able to find you in the midst of suffering or more able to find you without experiencing suffering. That I have wanted to have the benefits of knowing you deeply without drinking the cup of your suffering. That I have a hard time trusting you. That at times I am afraid of you. That though you have spoken often to me about joy, I seem to be unable to grasp what you mean by that. That I have hated people I deeply love. That I have harbored anger and unforgiveness. That I have been certain that you cannot be loving, because the life you have offered has been far too cruel for that. That I have hated the things you've said, and feared the things you've called me too. That there have been moments when I've created distance from you and others in an attempt to protect my heart, instead of believing that you will shield and protect it.

And so I ask for your forgiveness. And your voice and your presence and your help as I seek to walk differently. I ask for a heart that loves. A heart that is still willing to believe that you can and will change things that I believe are impossible. I ask for your healing, and your wholeness, recognizing that your definition of wholeness might just look a lot like my definition of shattered. I ask for more of the deep moments when my heart knows that it has met with you, and for you to remind me of those moments even when I'd rather forget and let my heart grow hard. Give me back a heart of flesh, in place of a heart of stone. Let me see you in the gift of a church candle from my roommate, and wine goblets waiting to be used. Let me see you in the scarves wrapped around me. Let me see you, and not the pain and bitterness and questions that so many of the reminders scattered around my bedroom have carried.

I love you. And I long to walk in step with you. (And I admit that I'm afraid of what that could mean.) Ease my fears with your comfort. Remind me of that first verse I memorized as a small child, to say aloud in the middle of the night to combat the nightmares, "when I am afraid, I will put my trust in you." Help me to trust. Help me to want to trust.

I love you. And I desire you.

I remember the vows I made to you. And I remain committed to them. Give me the strength and grace to walk those out.

Remind me that I chose this. That I committed to follow you, even if it meant drinking from the cup of suffering.

Pour out your blessings on those I have resented. Help me to walk daily in forgiveness towards them.

Work a miracle and once again draw together the things that have been impossibly broken.

Bring peace and restoration.

Bring an outpouring of hope and joy.

May it be enough comfort for me that I was where you asked, when you asked me to be, even if others were not. Help me to rest in that obedience. Help that to be enough, to be the thing I remember, not the brutally painful things.

Help me to see beauty instead of the ashes. To remember the deep image of the phoenix that night a few years back, sitting on the floor at epic, next to a friend, while Kirk preached. That was another week and another year that was marked by deep beauty and deep pain walking hand in hand. Help me to remember that so often the beauty came in the midst of the deepest destruction and pain. Help me to look for the beauty and not become focused on and mired in the destruction and pain.

You are good. It's a truth spoken by your word. Help my heart to trust and rest in that.

Bring freedom. Help me to see the places you have offered it, and to walk in it. Help me to be still in those places where I am still bound - to stop thrashing in order to be set free.

Provide in new ways for me.

Restore my health.

Show me the church community that you have for me.

I love you.

Abba, I belong to you. May your will be done in my life.

Amen.

Dumb Decision

I made a stupid decision today.

I was exhausted, and angry, and hurting, and broken, and frustrated, and I made a stupid decision.

Nothing life altering, thankfully. Just dumb.

Something I knew fairly quickly wouldn't solve the exhaustion, anger, hurt, brokenness, or frustration. That would in fact likely add to a couple of those categories.

I've told people for years when I've shared about the lessons I learned in the midst of depression that they shouldn't make any decisions when they're in a low.

I ignored my own advice today.

And I regret it.

On the edge of a precipice

I am broken and overwhelmed.

A friend of mine has a lyric that reads "the lie, the lie is becoming convincing".

The lies are overwhelmingly strong today. And they are becoming convincing.

There is very little strength to stand, and even less to fight.

I had a disturbing dream just before waking again this morning, and the vivid nature of this one has carried with me into the day.

I dreamt that I was standing on the edge of a precipice, trying to prevent myself from falling into pitch darkness and danger. There were only two spike like stalagmites, one on either side of me to hold on to to prevent the fall. I had no choice but to hold them, but they are like razors, and slice my hands when I do. I was in pain and my hands were bleeding, and I was working to prevent the fall into nothingness...

It haunts me today, the image of my bloody and painful hands, gripping a razor like object for dear life.

Exposed

This finding freedom business is even harder work than I thought.

And there is yet more to walk through.

More things surfacing.

I'm feeling exhausted, raw, exposed, naked. In front of God, and a close trusted friend.

It's not a safe feeling yet, to stand so exposed, even in front of Jesus, who I know knew it anyway.

I pray one day it will be a safe place. I believe one day it will.

In the meantime, I'm committed to keep standing there.

Even when it seems to be tearing me apart.

Even when the rawest of wounds is being ripped open.

As a friend pointed out on the weekend, it's better than letting them fester.

And I continue to pray for broken things to be restored. People. Hearts. Relationships.

My heart has shattered, and there is yet more surfacing, more to walk through.

And yet, this freedom that seems to come at so high a cost, that seems to be so painful to achieve, is something my heart longs for, and so I keep walking, one tiny little halting, sometimes, limping, sometimes crawling step at a time, with many tears shed, towards it.

What healing looks like.

As I have so often lately, I feel a general tearing in the universe and within my own heart, and am working not to dissolve into tears.

I try to confine the daily (sometimes several times daily) crying jags to the moments when I am alone in my house, or alone in my car, or laying in bed praying for rest.

I'm tired. Bruised. Shattered.

I'm remembering.

I'm looking backwards. And forwards.

I was surprised to find, in the midst of a conversation last night, that some olds wounds have healed. Or mostly healed. And I was surprised at the ones that still sting.

I'm waiting. To see. To hear. To know. To be finished.

I'm praying. With my own words. And words I've borrowed.

For myself. And the nations. And especially those I love deeply.

I'm lonely. And reminding myself that I am not alone.

I'm feeling ugly and unworthy of love. But reminding myself that these too, are lies.

Maybe this is what healing looks like?

Just when I thought it was over...

Just when I thought it might finally be coming to an end. This year of madness and insanity. This year of deep brokenness. Just when I thought that it was over. That I was done. That it was finally going to be possible to move on, it kicked back into gear again.

More tears.

More exhaustion.

More disturbing dreams.

The growing distance. (I hate the distance.)

It's still going on all around me. It's still going on inside of me.

And the question is this: Can I be done? Or must it still be engaged? Can something that so deeply affects me, and those I care about deeply, be ignored until it really does go away? When will it all end? And what does living out life in the meantime look like?

And so, I'm back to waiting and praying. The tears spill over on a regular basis - a several times daily basis. My heart is shattered, and I wonder if it will ever be whole again. I wonder some days if whole is what I really want, or if shattered is maybe the thing that looks more like Jesus' heart anyway.

Close to the Brokenhearted

Psalm 34:18 (NLT)
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted;
he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.

I'm drawing comfort in new ways from this tonight.

new year coming

I was up most of the night.

Talking with a friend.

Praying.

Crying.

Some combination of all three at times.

This morning my heart hurts.

I am angry.

And exhausted.

I'm done.

With so many of the things that have marked this crazy year.

I am letting my heart look back, and remembering the many, many oh so broken, bittersweet, beautiful moments.

I am writing. One last ditch effort to give voice to my heart. Words that may or may not ever make it out of my journal or my draft email folder, but words I need to record anyway.

There's a new year coming. And I pray, that in the last hours of this present one, many things will draw to a close.

It's time.

To rise and walk.

To heal.

To let go.

To be free.

For all of this to draw to a close, that new life may again begin to sprout.

If 2008 was "a time for tearing down" then I pray that 2009 will be a "time for rebuilding" a "time for healing."