The Breakup

Okay, I’m about to let you in on a secret. This is my unpopular opinion about what is happening in our world right now. We are opening back up, timidly, but still trying to slowly reorient ourselves with the world and … I’m sad. That’s right. I said it. I’m sad to see the quarantine end. It feels like sassy little Quarantine looked me dead in the eyes, took my hand, and said, “It’s time to see other people.” No! I’m not ready! I don’t want to move on. I didn’t get a choice when our relationship began, I should at least get a say as to when it ends! 

How many times have you or a friend confessed the desire to hit “pause” on life? That’s what we all had. We had a giant, unforeseen pause. And, now, it’s all over. It feels like grief if I’m honest. I’ve had several great losses in my life; and, while this doesn’t compare with their depth, it’s flavor profile is identical to grief. I grieved being forced into my home and now I’m grieving leaving. (Clearly, the Lord was correct in comparing us to sheep. We don’t know what we want or need and wander aimlessly.) 

A friend recently asked if I had been experiencing restlessness and my answer was, “I think I have always felt restless.” My whole life was spent wanting to do and go––anywhere that wasn’t where I was. You can blame it on the Millennial mentality that says we can go and do whenever we darn well please but I don’t think that’s it. There has been a hunger in my soul as long as I can remember. I vividly recall confessing to a friend one late night, “I think I was made for more. More than this. More than what I’m doing right now.” Is that hunger for more simply a reflection of the eternity sew in my heart? Or, is it a part of the Spirit stirring in me to keep me pushing and moving forward? Could it be both? 

Restlessness has always felt like a curse, especially in a small town. This wanderer’s spirit has felt out of place most of the time which often brought a fair share of sadness with it. The greatest question is what to do with the restlessness? Where do I take it? A few years ago I read through a book discussing how God can be as real and near as I let Him. I have always felt I could talk to Him like a dear friend, but could I open up my mind and heart and give Him free rein? 

I was prayer journaling one day during a drastic life change and just closed my eyes. I heard God ask me why I was afraid to step into the light, into the change? Why was I afraid to let him take me on an adventure? “I’m so scarred,” I confessed. I had this image of hiding in the shadows with my hideous flesh and a hand extended out of the light. And, clear as day, I heard the Lord gently whisper, “You’re beautiful to me.” So, I stepped out of the darkness, squinting into the light. I slipped my wounded hand into His and told Him I wanted to trust Him to be my adventure. I wanted Him to satiate the restlessness. (This may sound quite ridiculous to some, but I truly believe God can show us and say anything to us through His Spirit if we will let Him.)

This was the moment I saw my restlessness could lead me back to the feet of Jesus and could be used as a tool of my Abba to guide me where He wanted me. He made me restless. He knitted the wild desire for adventure into my soul––right next to the wise thread of caution. But, why does the restlessness in me, in all of us, often bring sadness? Am I sad because the restlessness leads me away? Like Gomer, why do I whore myself out for cheap imitations of love when perfect love is cupping my face? I seek out lovers to fill the void of what I believe I am lacking. My restless skin itches to feel the touch of a companion who can make the ache stop if only for a moment. But, the feelings will always return. 

During this quarantine, my restlessness has been minimal. It has dissipated until now. Once I accepted my fate of temporary isolation, I settled into the silence. I stepped in line with my Heavenly Father and found ways to savor His sweet tenderness. Walking outside became an adventure! A trip to the Starbucks drive-thru was the highlight of my day. The hug of a beloved friend suddenly brought every fiber of my being alive––eternal touching eternal. Scripture covered me before I slept. Prayers flowed from my lips and my pen daily. Life was lived moment by moment with little interruption. And now … now I see the sweetness of simplicity slipping away into the reality of my world. 

Like an unending summer day, this time must come to an end. I don’t like endings. I abhor goodbyes. And yet, they always seem to come. Last week was a difficult week for me. I cried, my heart ached, and I didn’t know why until I realized it was my first taste of the end. Lives around me that had been moving at the same pace as mine were speeding back up––where did that leave me? Maybe that is a part of restlessness. Loneliness. When we all move in rhythm with one another, it’s hard to feel as if someone is doing and being what you want to do and be. We all sat in our boats and beat our oars with the same cadence. 

I think leaving this quarantine feels more lonely and isolating for me than remaining it. While we are all in the same place, we feel so connected. But now, we will spread our wings and fly to the coasts seeking other escapes. My restlessness is that of a mother whose children are leaving home. I know this is exactly as it should be but I can’t help but feel so sad and alone. How do I grieve this separation? How do I rejoice for the return of “normal” when I’m grieved at the loss of connection? 

I think, for my heart, I need to make an ebenezer––an altar of remembrance. Maybe it is this blog. Or, I could paint, draw, write, but whatever it is I need to remember the provision of God in what initially felt like a trauma. So often in the Old Testament God would instruct His people to make an altar of remembrance. He knows we are a forgetful people. “Soul amnesia” as Ann Voskamp calls it. I need to remember that the answer to my restlessness isn’t found in the common answers. It is found in the face of my Father and my friends. Being one people meant more than any travel ever could. 

That’s my heart, not yours. You could be ecstatic to escape this time. It could have felt like your prison, your hell on earth. And, that’s okay too. We are each journeying down this road with different baggage but the same Guide. How will you remember this time? Will you praise your Maker for all He has done? Taste and savor the goodness of God even if, like me, you are sad to see it go. 

My prayer for my heart in this season are the words of Audrey Assad in Restless. 

Still my heart, hold me close

Let me hear, a still small voice

Let it grow, let it rise

Into a shout, into a cry!

Like You’re Running Out of Time

What do you do when the world goes to pot? Maybe you start by asking yourself where that phrase comes from. What does it mean for something to go to pot? Some of you may be thinking that if this quarantine lasts much longer you, too, will be turning to pot for relief. (For you inquiring minds, the term did actually originate in the 1970s. Journalists referring to the youth of the decade who did indeed smoke pot coined this iconic phrase.) But, smoking illegal drugs aside, how do you cope with loss of control? The grief of plans changed. The abolition of normalcy. For some, it is to seek out temporary relief in unhealthy forms, others ignore all guidelines and live their lives anyways. Some imagine every worst case scenario and become mole people. For me, I write. I put pen to paper, keystroke to document, mental scribble to mental post-it note. Whatever it takes to ease the words that are pulsating through my head at the speed of light. 

In the musical Hamilton, one of the refrains constantly used to reference Alexander Hamilton is “why do you write like you’re running out of time?” I love this image. A man furiously straining to capture everything in his mind and soul before it’s too late. Because the truth is we are all running out of time. I know, I know. That isn’t what people want to hear right now. We want to believe we are invincible. There is nothing and no one who can stop us. But, if we are all honest, the realization that we are indeed running out of time is what has smacked us across the face. We can’t outrun an enemy we can’t see. 

Writing is my answer to the chaos because it’s my own way of reiterating the Truth I know. “Your sword can be a sermon, or the power of the pen,” sings Coalhouse Walker Jr. in the timeless musical Ragtime. With each letter, syllable, word, sentence, phrase, I am fighting back the darkness. Or, in the darkness, confessing my fears to the One who knows them already. Either way, I am opening up the cavernous depths of heart and allowing––begging––for Truth to be shone into them. When I write the Truths I hear whispered over and over to my heart, I imagine a scene from the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling. One of the professors, Delores Umbridge (we don’t like her), has decided to make Harry perform write offs with a special quill. He asks where the ink is and she informs him it doesn’t need ink. As he begins to write, “I will not tell lies,” the words are etched into his hand and red ink appears on the page. After days of writing this phrase, it begins to leave a permanent mark on his hand. 

While this is an extreme example in a negative light, I want to use it for positive illumination. The repetition of writing Truth, for me, often feels like Harry’s punishment must have. The Truth cuts through my soft skin and my broken flesh bleeds my confession. I write and rewrite God’s Truth on the page before me and suddenly it begins to leave a permanent mark on my skin. I need only look down at my hand to be reminded, “You will have no other gods before me,” “I am with you always, even to the ends of the earth,” “I know where I have placed you,” and so many more. 

I find myself in desperate need of Truth these days. You see, I have been attacked by the truth that I am not in control. I had such a naive assumption that my plans, calendars, reminders, and Type A attitude kept everything humming along. I knew how to be flexible when I needed to be, I could go with the flow if I wanted. (Some of you are laughing a little too hard right now, I need you to stop.) But, when the rubber met the road … or the extrovert met quarantine … I knew this was all a facade. I am no more in control now than I was three weeks ago. My hands, blistered and scarred from years of clinging to my idols are left empty and shaking. What do you cling to when you thought you had been clinging to God? I have to give myself grace and say that some days I truly did cling to God and not my human ideals of regimented happiness. But, locked up deep inside, there has always been the little girl who just wanted everything to go according to plan. 

How do I bring that little girl into the light and help her see she has never been in charge of what was happening? I write to her. I write in prayer journals, blog posts, social media comments, thankfulness lists. I speak it to her when I pray and when I engage with others. If you turn to the psalms, you will find another floundering soul seeking God’s presence, purpose, and promises by writing down Truth in conjunction with heartbreak and fear. David wrote to his God and his soul. He sang his spirit out of hiding into the light of our Abba’s presence. 

God chose that we should use words to communicate with one another––to communicate with Him. Why do we run from that part? Why do we bite our tongues in His presence? We come before Him with a script, a formula, instead of a beating heart that just wants to cry the truth of what it feels. A heart that beats against our chest in anguish, fear, and pain. Don’t we see that with the simple verbal request we could be pulled tight to the chest of Christ and let his heartbeat mend the brokenness we utter in whispers as we are pressed into His safety and scent. 

So, in a time where everything feels out of control, may we use our words! Use them to point back to the Creator of Creation. Draw others into the love of Christ. Display His promises and Truth on social media. Catapult our hearts into His presence for confession and worship. May my words––be they written or spoken––honor the One who breathed air into these lungs and put His language in my mouth. 

Standing Watch

I am counting on the Lord;

    yes, I am counting on him.

    I have put my hope in his word.

I long for the Lord

    more than sentries long for the dawn,

    yes, more than sentries long for the dawn.

O Israel, hope in the Lord;

    for with the Lord there is unfailing love.

-Psalm 130:5-7

In these days I long for a lot of things. I long to be with my church body on Sunday mornings. I long to go out and have dinner with friends. I long to shop for groceries without feeling like Katniss Everdeen. I long for the days of abundant toilet paper. But, sigh … those days are not what I am experiencing. Instead, I worship from my couch via livestream. I go for socially appropriate walks 6 feet apart. I go into Kroger with no list and only the desire to find anything of substance. I reduce myself to three sheets of Charmin and the knowledge that drip-drying could be just around the corner. Reality vs. desire seems to be a greater chasm day by day. 

I have taken to reading scripture right before bed in an effort to pour Truth into my parched soul. Curled up in bed, I open my Bible and pray that God will guide me to the scripture He would have for me that evening. I have mainly been residing in Psalms since there is plenty of “woe is me” to relate to. And yet, what I love is that David rarely dwells in the valley without casting his eyes to the heavens. He knows the cycle of pain, encouragement, growth, success, and pain again. 

When I read his 130th Psalm, I was struck by his description of longing. “I long for the Lord more than sentries long for the dawn.” At first glance, the image that popped into my mind was a night guard who just wants his shift to be over. His eyes burn from staring at the security monitors and he may, or may not, have dozed off a couple times throughout the night. Daylight means sleep and rest and someone else’s responsibility. But, the more I chewed on it, the more I saw the depth of this longing and what it takes to survive it. 

A sentry is “a soldier who guards a place, usually by standing at its entrance.” Think of the beefeaters at Buckingham palace. Sure, sure, there is little chance someone will storm the palace after a 93 year-old queen but the purpose is the same. The history nerd in me imagines the days of castles and epic battles. Where you would be besieged for weeks on end. The fortresses of old had one way in and one way out. These are the days when a sentry would risk his life to save the lives of those within the fortress walls. 

A sentry longed for dawn with every fiber of his being because dawn meant safety. Light rid you of the threats in the darkness. No one wants to attack in broad daylight. These sentries, probably young men, would strain their eyes into the night constantly searching for a whisper of a threat. They stood in rain, wind, cold, snow, and heat. Their lives were offered up to save the lives of others. No wonder they longed for the dawn. But, how did they make it through the long nights? How did they push back the fear that assailed them? I want to imagine that they could tell roaring jokes or hilarious stories to pass the time, but I don’t think that relaxed attitude would have made them good sentries. They finished each night, crossing the mark, with perseverance. Romans 5:4-5 says, “Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” The suffering of the sentry on a long winter’s night produced perseverance and character within him. I can only imagine as the hours droned on that you would remind yourself why you were doing what you were doing. Bolstering your character as you realized your sacrifice went beyond your own suffering. The hope that must have welled up within them as each minute ticked closer to dawn. The pinks and ambers that streaked the wakening sky surely drew out a sigh of relief and deepened their hope that they would see another day. 

Like those sentries, we must persevere to see the dawn. And, as each night passes, we rejoice that another morning has come. Our hope swells and we convince ourselves, if only for a moment, that this too shall pass. Why is it that I so often only see the darkness around me? Why does it feel as if there is no amount of will or prayer that can push away the all-consuming night? Satan thrives off of this kind of darkness. Evil seeks out the crevices of the heart to hide within. What can I do or say or hear that will give me the strength to endure to the end? 

The Light of Truth is the only thing that can penetrate such darkness. We must speak it, sing it, read it, hear it, and write it for ourselves and for other sentries just like us. Our job is to encourage and protect one another’s hearts as the Enemy seeks to destroy them with fear, anxiety, and isolation. Will we cry out Truth to one another? Will we truly long for the Truth of God? Will we strain our eyes to see the pinprick of light in the darkness we are currently experiencing? I want to be that sentry. I want to fight away the darkness even though my eyes burn from exhaustion and my stomach moans with hunger. I want to see this through to the end with hope engraved on my heart.

Let us be the sentries for one another and fight back the lies together. Let us long for the presence of the Lord more than they. Let us be the light shouting praise and glory to the One who sustains us and will carry us through to the end of this race, knowing that in our suffering we will persevere with character and arrive at the glorious hope.