As Lent drew to a close I was longing for the freedom, the fun to return to my blog. I had a least one post half ready and was bubbling over with more ideas to explore. But I became quiet. A rest, I thought while waiting for the fun to bubble back up; maybe a small rest. Then the walls began to shake. The supports around me are quivering, threatening to buckle under. Some have already cracked and crumbled, never to be rebuilt. Others seem to be holding firm but with web like fissures exposing the need for repairs. But some walls are still trembling and I do not know if they will hold or break. Funny, most of these walls are not mine. I did not build them. But as much as I'd like it I am not a lone cottage by the sea. I am a row house, crowded in and buttressed by community and family. Around me I see painful changes and potentially painful changes and though none of them are about me, all will directly effect me. None of them point a way to those dreams most dear to my heart or the promises I have received. So I am feeling abandoned in the quake. Jericho’s walls groan and I thought I was on the side of the conquering warriors but perhaps…and the anxiety builds and there are no words in this heaviness.
Last week I curled up in my room and whispered in low tones to a young one I cherish about the constant symphony of my emotions; the soaring arias and the crashing crescendos, the awkward lulls, the harmonies found in the disorder. I tried to explain the simple melody in the lowest register, the notes I can usually only hear if I carefully listen. Peace, hope, joy, they all sing their plaintive messages in the foundation of my emotions. They are not my composition but the song of Christ within me, proof of His Presence. I am longing to hear those notes, that song which will delight me, but the buzz of anxiety drowns everything out but sadness and fear.
So I arise after a restless night filled with heartbreaking dreams heavy and in such need of Him. Come, He says, do not delay. You need me now. So I drag my tired self over to the living room, heavy with want and fear, and sit. I pick up the book which walked me through Lent and read again about the hard eucharisteo: the giving thanks for what is, even if ugly, knowing that God is always present. The thanksgiving in hopes of seeing not just a miracle but the miracle Maker and the miracles that have always stuck with me are those He has wrought in my unwieldy heart. So though I am recording the beauty I see in a book just for Him, today I share a portion with you. That and memories of dust motes circling like fairies in a hushed church glowing with autumn sunlight are all I have to offer.
353. turmoil – in it I value Your faithfulness
354. shaken security – reminds me to only build on You
355. lack of words – You are in the silence most active
356. exhaustion – You will have to be my strength
357. harmful songs blasting on my soul iPod – only you can turn them down and now I’m willing to ask
358. bad dreams – I get to wake up
359. heartbreak – You will bind me up
360. 2 year old giggles
361. 7 year old hugs
362. a leader I can trust
363. crushing anxiety – drives me into Your arms
364. breaking down the strongest parts of my life – making room for Your blessing (?)