breathing in the dark (a plea to myself and to God)

Sometimes the pain comes out of nowhere. A bolt of anxiety that shoots through my heart and spreads to my fingertips… A stab of fear that tastes like two-in-the-morning wakefulness… An infinitesimal second of loneliness that holds eternity inside of it. And suddenly the pain hits from behind and I am breathless, choking, with an ache that makes me wonder at the way we attempt to separate emotional and physical pain. They are one and the same. Anxiety has a physical flavor of pain. Fear does too. Loneliness… An aching heart leaves a bruise.

Keep breathing. It’s what I have to tell myself. Keep breathing. You will be okay. Not all unraveling is painful. Keep breathing. Keep going. Please, please…keep going.

I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel hope. I don’t feel peace. I don’t even have my usual words. I feel weak, anxious, afraid… I could write down bible verses, tons of them; I could quote song lyrics of faith like the best of them. But the truth–that tiny, fragmented thing–seems so small. I’m realizing the problem is not that I don’t know the truth. It’s not that I don’t believe it. The problem is that the truth doesn’t seem significant. When I pray, “God, help me believe the truth”, what I am really praying is, “God, make the truth seem significant.” And that’s all I can pray right now. I know the truth–I am loved, God is with me, it’s not about who I am but who I’m with… But the truth doesn’t seem significant. Father, make the truth seem significant. Make it carry weight. May the truth mean something. Help me to be strengthened by the grace that is in Jesus. Amen.

i don’t know (but i do know what i need to know)

Something I’ve been thinking about:

I don’t really know who I am. I don’t really know myself–the deepest parts of me, the “twillight zone”, as I suppose Nouwen would call it, is as much a mystery to me as it is to other people. I think this is how Nouwen puts it:

“There is a twilight zone in our hearts that we ourselves cannot see. Even when we know quite a lot about ourselves-our gifts and weaknesses, our ambitions and aspirations, our motives and our drives-large parts of ourselves remain in the shadow of consciousness. This is a very good thing. We will always remain partially hidden to ourselves.”

And this is true of me. I can feel it. Perhaps this phase of my life can be characterized by a deeper understanding of my lack of understanding. My lack of self-awareness. I don’t really know who I am. But I think, if I can be so bold as to say it, that that is not the important thing. The important thing is that I know who I want to become.

I want to be a person who listens. I want to be the kind of person who lives in a way that invites people to share their story with me. I want to be the kind of person others feel they can go to and receive not condemnation but acceptance, not a diagnosis but a listener, not a false sense of everything-will-be-okay but a genuine sense of hope rooted in the character of Christ. I want to be the kind of person whose friends know that they are deeply loved and deeply cared about, no matter who they are or what they’ve done. I want to be the kind of person who serves instinctively, who understands that “words spoken in deep love or deep hate set things in motion within the human heart that can never be reversed.” I want to be someone who speaks words of life, who prays (com)passionately for her friends, who withholds from anger and jealousy as much as humanly possible. I want to be someone whose lifestyle encourages other people–not in its flawless ability to imitate Christ, but in its genuine attempt to love and live like Him even when failing again and again and again.

You see, I’ll be honest with you: I wish I knew who I was a little bit better. I feel like a stranger living in a foreign soul. I feel like life would be just a little easier if my twilight zone was a little less twilight. But I’m reminded that I have to be patient, keep trusting in God. Another one by Nouwen:

“A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us.”

Knowing who I am is not the most important thing. Who I am is constantly changing, growing, molding and deepening. Who I want to be–now that is something I can root myself in. I want to be like Jesus. I’ll keep looking at and to Him in the hopes that the clay will begin to reflect the potter. It’s all I can really do. I am a mystery unto myself. But that’s okay. Like Bonhoeffer said, “Whoever I am, Thou knowest O God, I am Thine.” And I am reminded constantly that I am safe because Somebody else knows me. Sees me. And loves me.

Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am Thine.

“to be a light in the darkest night…”

Sometimes it seems as if all my efforts are meaningless. Pointless. As if all I have achieved is the pouring out of my own energy and hope. A few weeks ago, I gave a friend a stack of note cards filled with prayers I’d written out for her over the past year of high school. Words from my heart, words that I’ve racked my brain and soul trying to think of and write painstakingly down so that they would mean something to her. This friend has not mentioned the gift once, has not even acknowledged that she read a single sentence of a single note card.

And it hurts. I can tell you that it hurts a lot. It feels like a year-long, wasted effort that has achieved nothing but perhaps a good friend thinking I’m crazy. And it makes me angry. I would be lying if I did not admit that it makes me angry. It doesn’t make sense to me how you can receive any gift at all–but much more something like written prayers–and not even acknowledge that you opened it. It makes me unwilling to do something like this ever again.

And yet.

One of my closest friends in elementary school and junior high is going through an extremely difficult time. She was hospitalized a while ago without me knowing it, and has been suffering through significant emotional pain and depression. I’ve been haunted lately by imaginary phone calls telling me that she committed suicide. And in those moments of fear and panic, when I read a text message she wrote and feel my heart split apart, I realize that it doesn’t matter…that it has never mattered. If my other friend never acknowledges the prayers I gave her. If she never speaks of anything remotely spiritual to me. If no one in my life ever thanks me for something I’ve done for them. What is vastly more important is just that I do something. Just that I try. Because I see a world of devastating pain around me. And some of that pain, like my struggling friend, I have experienced before and know first-hand the anguish it can cause. And having been there, I feel this indescribably powerful yearning to bring any kind of hope that I can. So I will continue to do everything in my ability to help, continue to pray, continue to reach out, even if I myself am more broken than I can possibly convey. I don’t know if my efforts will make a difference, if they will ever be acknowledged. I don’t know how one shard of broken glass can help another shard find wholeness. I don’t know. But I will try. No matter what, I will try.

I can’t believe You’re still here (a weak prayer for a strong God)

Okay, Lord…

Praying is hard right now but let me try. Maybe writing the words down will help. Maybe. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for living as if this changes everything. Living as if You’ve abandoned me when perhaps my own shame made me want to abandon You. Because it always feels safer to be the one abandoning rather than the one abandoned. And I’m still not altogether convinced that You won’t abandon me. But… Somehow You’re still here. I can’t quite believe it but You are. And because of that, I’m trying to trust You. Trying to trust that You write better stories than I do, with much better endings that I can imagine. Trying to trust that You love Your characters more than I love my own. And that Your poems hold a lot more beauty and hope than mine do.

I promised You that I would go anywhere, do anything, walk any path You want as long as You go with me. And…and I still mean that. I have a lot of fear right now, a lot of loneliness and longing. But in the deepest place of my soul I think there is faith rather than doubt. Love rather than mistrust. Hope rather than despair. If I dig deep enough, I find You and not me. So I ask that You lead me, Lord. Guide my steps. I will walk this broken path if You are beside me and behind me and in front of me and at the end of me. I don’t have a lot of faith but I have a little and maybe that can be enough. Maybe You multiply faith the way you multiply fish and bread. Maybe it’s easier to show Your power to someone who knows that any strength is not of her own but can only come from You.

I think….this is good for now. It’s a good prayer to start with. I’m glad I can get some words out this time. Here are the last words I’ll say. They’re not my own. They’re from songs, but I know that’s okay with You. Sometimes the best words are borrowed. So here’s one of them, Lord:

He heals the brokenhearted,
He binds their wounds,
He is Love

He comforts the lonely
He hears their cry
He is Love

And here’s another one:

You’ve brought me to the wilderness where I will learn to sing
And You let me know my barrenness so I will learn to lean

And then there’s this last one, stirred from old memories and found with new meaning:

Teach me your ways oh Lord 
And I will walk in your truth 
Show me your paths oh Lord 
For I am devoted to you 
Purify my heart’s desire 
I long to be your servant 

Give me an undivided heart 
That I may fear your name 
Give me an undivided heart 
No other gods, No other love, 
No other gods before you

No other gods before You. Not the god of my fear, or the god of my desires, or the god of my loneliness… Just You. You’re the only God I need.