The lives that came between us.
This place has seen little more than silence over the past four months. In a lot of ways, my heart is still trying to find it's bearings after October all but emptied me out. Grief, I'm learning, is no respecter of anyone's schedule. I wish I could say that coming back here felt like coming home, but that wouldn't really be true. Honestly, staring at this blank page feels like bumping into a lover from a past life. It feels like trying to rehabilitate a broken bone. Nothing is where it is supposed to be, and every move feels painful and awkward and requires more trust than I think I can muster. It isn't that I don't believe that healing can happen in an instant -- I do. But that has never been the case with me. So this is where I am now. Busted up, but trying to conjure up the courage to take the next step and the next until the scars fade and this chapter is a memory.
January 1 has come and gone, and I am still learning to lean into the ugly beautiful of a fresh start that I did not choose. This is me, sweaty palms and gritted teeth, finally hitting send on the text message that simply says "I miss you." Finally starting the work of demolishing the walls held up by my pride.
These are the stories of all the lives that came between us.
"Close your eyes and point," he told me. "We can go anywhere." All I wanted in that moment was to pack a suitcase and be gone before the world woke up. Walking away looked so damn easy. I wondered if anyone would notice we were gone. Will anyone fight for us? I am asking God.
This place is full of ghosts.
My bones are dry. I'm searching for any sign of life. A whisper that all is not lost, that beauty will rise up from these ashes. A permission slip to cry on the floor of my closet until I can't breathe, someone to tell me that it is okay to hold out hope, even on the days when it feels like the odds are stacked against me. Especially on those days. Hope isn't some fragile thing, you know. It isn't for the faint of heart.
"Forgiveness," my friend tells me, "is one of the most supernatural things a human being can take part in."
These are words my soul needs to hear, but I resist. This feels like writing the eulogy for a dream. I stand over the grave with my fistfuls of soil, not wanting to let go. Not wanting to pick up this cross.
I learned something about panic today, sitting stunned and silent in a pew. The word was born from the name of a false god. I've made idols from these dreams, from this semblance of control. I've seen the faithfulness of God, but now I'm in the wilderness and everything seems dark and empty and I need something to fix my eyes on. I slice my soul wide open and bleed, desperate to change the course of the story.
Will anyone fight for us? And it is not lost on me that he has never stopped fighting. Just perhaps that we've been fighting different battles -- me for my own dignity and him for his image come to life in me. He'd stitch me up, if I would just be still long enough.
Perseverance is the cessation of striving. Hadn't I learned that? Hadn't I always known that the invitation was to come and die? Hadn't I answered that invitation with a confident yes? Hadn't I always said I believed that wherever God had me really was the safest place?
Death will never feel safe. It will never be the choice option. But it is the only option that leads to life and freedom.
I should probably tell you, in case you're wondering: my idols never answered me. They never loved me back. They never held onto me the way that I held onto them in the middle of the night.
Maybe this is what coming home feels like, after all.