January 21, 2015

It’s dim in the apartment. The morning was cloudy and when Nate left for work it was raining. Weak gray light comes through the frosted windows and I am on the bed alone, and I’ve been crying.

It’s not the first time I’ve cried like this, and probably it won’t be the last either.

I have hurts that are still healing, though I can’t quite see how. Broken bones get casts.  Antibiotics fight infection. Hydrate and amp up your vitamins when you catch a cold. Deep cuts require stitches and tumors get cut right out. But what oh what do you do with hurts in your spirit?

I’ve learned brand-new things over the past year that I never thought would be necessary, and the lessons haven’t stopped with the calendar change. Secretly, without really admitting it to myself, I wanted them to. I very much wanted 2015 to mean that 2014 and all it had carried was DONE. Capital letters.

But this week has shown me otherwise. Gentle questions and unassuming probes have uncovered uncertainty where I wish I were sure, reminded where I want to forget, questioned where I have no answers that satisfy or comfort.

I cried last night before I slept, and this afternoon I cried again. Prayers wrestled with each other as I laid the whole mess out before God:

I’m done. I’m done. I’m done. and No more. Please. I can’t. struggle against Finish the work, God. Show me more. Do what you must. Surrender takes more muscle than rebellion.

After a morning at work and lunch with Nate, alone now, I lay it down before the Father.

I am trying a new thing.

Not to find an answer. But just to say what’s in my head and my heart, and then to listen. Not to think of a fix, but to just trust and sit and ask Him to join me. To feel all the weight of the sorrow I would ordinarily dodge. To remember that He knows that weight, and that it’s never been my burden to carry. I’m always crushed when I try.

I have all the time in the world to spend in His presence, but I’m guilty of finding anyplace else to waste it. So today I’m choosing to sit and wait. I don’t know for what: for the bones to set, or the scars to heal, maybe. Maybe that will come later. But I need to be in God’s presence, and that will not happen passively. Surrender’s not passive, and neither is waiting. It’s against every twitchy instinct I have, but when I read this and this I know I’m not alone, and that maybe I’m on a good track.

God, I surrender, and I’m waiting here for You.