In Transit.

The thing about moving that drives me nuts is the 'in-between' phase.  Where you are neither here nor there.  You are in your house, but none of your stuff is. Or you are in a hotel. Or temporary lodging.  Anywhere but the place where you are meant to end up.  You can't start anything.  You spend your days trying to finish off loose ends, collect spare change, vacuuming up cobwebs that have been growing unbeknownst to you for five years.  You see this big THING looming in the future, but you can't quite tuck in and get to sorting because it's still dangling just out of your reach.

It's in this in-between place, this place where you are constantly in transit, where I think I used to... how do I put this?  Let myself go?  Sure, that sounds right. But not in the sense of physical appearance (but let it be known that DUDES, I AM A STRESS EATER).  More in the sense of letting go of my life on this end.  Pulling back from relationships.  Starting to let go of duties that I have taken very seriously up until this point.  It's normal I think.  Leaving a place hurts, so we knowingly or unknowingly do what we need to do to lessen the pain.  I get it.  I am a master of backing up when I see pain coming. 

But this time it's different.

The end of our time in England is drawing near.  I have had 5 years to grow roots here, longer than I have had anywhere since my childhood home.  And, boy did I grow them.  I find myself getting close to leaving, and now suddenly I look down and there they are, weaving in and out of the house, the church, my family-on-this-side-of-the-pond.  And instead of panicking, of running backwards, snipping away at the tendrils holding me to England, I am reaching out, encouraging them to grow, grow, grow.  Touching them here and there, and instead of shying away from the pain of separation looming on the horizon, I find myself smiling at the thought of being blessed enough to have a wonderful reason to hurt so much. 

I found a journal of mine that I had written in two years ago.  I spoke of a feeling I was getting that God was leading me into a big lesson on community.  See, I was not so keen on community.  I had my husband and children, and we are all rockstars at being hermits, and I was content.  But I could sense a change coming, and I smile now thinking that even then I could catch a glimpse at what was on the horizon.

Enter the church, and all of the wonderful people it held within its doors.  I look at my community now and I am in awe, and not quite sure how I was able to grow so many solid friendships in so short a time.  And I love the fact that it will be hard to say goodbye.  Because that means they meant something.  That means that my roots were able to grow deep enough to tap into what I see now as a life-giving give-and-take that happens between people.  Something that I was missing for a while there.

So now, in this in-between place, I am sitting here continuing to nurture these parts of me, letting them grow, letting them blossom.  Because maybe when I leave they won't break.  Maybe when I leave, that connection will be so deep that an ocean won't matter.  Maybe when I cut and ran before, I wasn't protecting a darn thing. 

I can't help but be giddy at what lays ahead of us.  But I am also giddy at what I get to do in transit.  I am in my in-between place.  So let's get to growin.

The Plan.

My steps are hard and loud. As I hurry up the gravel path towards the church, my breathing and my heartbeat are pulling and pushing against each other, making the heat inside my chest even more chaotic. My thoughts are skipping and lurching, unable to keep a single coherent line. The anger is seeping out of my bones, burning as it rushes towards the furious pull of my heart. My stomach is doing its best to control the convulsions, but the fire is strong, and I expect to be on my hands and knees vomiting lava onto the grass with every step. My hands shake as they reach for the handle, unable to contain the venom much longer. My body does not have the capacity to hold this type of wrath, and I fear I might be split apart from the effort.

            The door swings towards me, feeling like a lead weight, dragging on its hinges, keeping me from what lay behind it. As I make my way to the sanctuary, a sob breaks through, making me double over with the effort to hold it back. I can't break yet. There is nothing he can do to help me now, but I need to make him see. I need him to be a witness to my fury, to confirm that it's real and hot and alive. I bite down on my tongue in the effort to hold back the wave that is threatening to overtake me. The metallic taste of blood and the sharp sting of pain is enough to appease the anger for now. I wretch myself up and make my way to the sanctuary, going around the inviting desks lined with pamphlets about inviting Jesus into your heart and dealing with loss and grief. I pull the double doors open with one sweeping motion, revealing an empty and dimly lit space. I keep my eyes trained ahead and I make my way toward the altar, grabbing a hymnal from one of the pews as I pass it. The book is heavy in my hand, filled with songs of praise and rejoicing, songs of sadness and mercy. The songs of my childhood fill this book, songs that offered me comfort in times before this. There will be no singing tonight.

As I near the front of this holy space, a part of me notices that there is someone standing in the shadows.  He’s stood up, surprised at my sudden entry, but I ignore his alarmed but saddened eyes and continue my march forward.  Without stopping, I pull my arm back and hurl the hymnal forward.  With an echoing thud, it bounces off the cross that’s hanging over the altar, watching over us each week as we come and go.  The cross vibrates softly, but otherwise continues its silent guard.  I reach over into the front pew and grab another book, not caring to look if I’ve grabbed another hymnal or an unlucky pew Bible.  I send this one the way of the first, a sound escaping me, either a grunt or a sob, I’m not sure which.  I go to the opposite pew, take hold of two books, turn and send them towards the cross as well.  Book after book hit my mark, the cross humming softly with each blow, taking my anger and turning it into a soft, strange music. 
            As I hurl another book, I feel the wall inside of me crumble away.  It’s as if the whole thing comes down at once, releasing the torrent, letting it overtake me.  I fall to my knees and give in to the sob that’s been climbing its way up my throat.  As my body is rocked by wave after wave of despair, I curl up at the foot of the altar.  My mind does not know how to process the sudden deluge of emotion, so it retreats and waits silently, giving my pain the space it needs to burn itself out.  Time becomes a non-entity, passing by without making eye-contact, doing it’s best to not intrude. 
            After a time, I am aware of a hand on my back, a soft murmuring above me.  As my sobs grow quieter, I recognize the voice of my pastor.  I realize he must have been the one standing, watching my assault on the cross.  I don’t have the energy to feel ashamed, though I don’t think I would anyway.  He continues his soft prayer, knowing full-well what drove me here.  His hand continues to lie on my back, holding me down, keeping me from dislodging from this world all-together. 
            “I’m sorry about the books,” I murmur.
            “No, you’re not.”
            “You’re right.”
            A moment of silence passes between us.  It gives me a chance to take an unsteady breath.  I don’t have the energy to sit up, so I remain curled on the floor, under the ever-watchful eyes of the cross, which looks no worse for wear despite my onslaught.  The thought comforts me…  barely. 
            “I’m so mad at him.”
            My pastor considers this for a moment, wondering which I am referring to, God or the one that tore my world from me.  Thinking I would go on, he waits silently.
            “I just needed him to see.” My breath catches and I stop before I can sink into my pain again.

           “Did you not think he saw before?”
           I sit up so I can look him in the eyes.  “I needed to see him seeing.” I look up to the cross.  “I needed him to see my anger. I needed him to take some of the wrath.”  I turn and look back at my pastor.  “It will burn me alive if I can’t give it away.  I just…” I close my eyes in hopes of stopping the tears that are forming anew.  They fall anyway.  “I just needed to feel like I could mourn with him, you know?” 

He nods, not breaking eye contact with me.  “God does see it; you know he has a plan…”

My eyes flare and he stops talking immediately.  “This is not part of his plan!” I yell.  “Everyone needs to stop telling me that THIS is HIS PLAN.”  I see the shock register on his face, and it’s enough to calm me.  “I’m sorry.  I just… I just cannot hear that again.  This… this,” I say, touching my heart, “is not part of his plan.  His plan was one with a happy ending.  His plan did not include cruelty, and pain, and…” I wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep my soul steady.  My heart pounds with a mix of fury and anguish.  I have to forcibly choke the last word out. “Death.”  The finality of the word loosens my hold, and my soul slips through my grasp and breaks open, spilling its pain once again. 

           I call out, whether with my voice or with my soul I can’t be sure.  I call to the God who formed her in my womb, I call to the God who knit her together, I call to the God who now holds her again in his arms.  My arms cover my head and pull at my hair.  I cannot contain my grief.  I know her pain is over, and that mine is just beginning.  I call again to the God who is and was. I call to the God that must feel every bit of their anguish when one of his children is in pain.  I call to the God who I believe weeps just as much as his child when sin and death sweep through their life. I call to the God who gave us a way out, and is waiting to make his plan come to fruition.  I call to the God of mercy, of love, of hope, of life.  I call to my God, and I know that my pain is not eased, and will not be for a long while, but I know he will be there, watching silently, turning my anger and grief into sad, quiet music, until the day when It. Is. Done. 

Control

Control.

Control is a funny thing.

We all seek it. We all yearn for it.  Even if you consider yourself a docile, laid-back, go-with-the-flow kind of person, you seek control in some aspect.

I think it very much has to do with everything seeming so very out of control these days.  If you watch the news anymore, you see story after story of the world slipping, receiving lash after lash from our cruel natures, dripping with the blood and anguish of those hurting in all its corners.  Where is the control? 

We look to our parent’s marriages, our church, our friends, our children, and we see that we are losing control.  People are turning on each other, bonds are broken, marriages falling apart.  Where is the control?

We look to ourselves and the extra 40 pounds we are carrying. We see that we continue to eat more than we should, move less than we should. We see the laundry piling up, the bathrooms that need cleaning, the car that needs vacuuming.  Where is the control?

So we seek it.  We grasp at it in everything we can.  We try to get control over our bodies, over our kids, over our marriages, over our house.  We hunt it down and then if we happen to find even its shadow we tighten our grip and furrow our brows, swearing that we will keep it this time.  We will prove to everyone that we have control, because everyone else has convinced us that they have it too. 

But do you want to know a secret?  There is no control.  Not that we can have, at least.  We get glimpses of it, but it’s a distorted, cruel version.  We yell because the kids will not control themselves at the dinner table.  We storm because the house will not stay clean.  We cry because our bodies do not look like what we are told they should.  And so we frighten the children with our raised voices.  We chuck things into their rightful places until the house is clean.  We convince ourselves that we have the time and energy to always stay the course when it comes to clean eating.  And we convince ourselves that this is control. That we are the one at top, finally getting it right.

But at what cost?

I am writing this sitting in the van parked outside my house.  There is no key in the ignition, I have nowhere to go. I needed a break.  Today was one of those days that I lost control.  The kids were terrible, my house was a mess, my plans didn’t go as planned.  So my husband walked in and let me take a break.  And I had the chance to look back on how I handled the absence of control, and I can’t say that I’m proud.  I feel pummeled, chewed up and spit out, as they say. 

And I know why. I couldn’t get control of my life, so I kicked and screamed and when that didn’t work, I decided that it was all against me and then sat in the car by myself for a while.  But at least the silence let me think for a while.

And thinking led me here.  Why is it we fight so hard for control?  I think we are all under the assumption that that is what we are supposed to do.  If we have it together, we must be living a good life, raising a good family.  Doing the right thing.  Dare I say, being more Christian?  I think a small part of my brain has somehow managed to convince itself that having everything under control somehow places me nearer to God than I otherwise would be. 

But then I thought…. What do I actually know about Control and what do I actually know about God? 

Well, what does God command us to do?

Love Him with all our heart, soul, strength and mind.  And love our neighbors as ourselves.

Also, all those commandments… don’t steal, don’t covet, don’t bear false witness, don’t worship idols, honor your parents…

Seems to me… that all of these things that we need to do as Christians have to do with our own reactions.  And so the thought occurred to me…

The only thing that we control is our reaction to the uncontrollable. 

And that’s all God asks of us.

And that might sound scary to some, but to me, when this thought skipped through my brain, my entire body relaxed.  It does not make me a better woman of God when I have my children always in control, but it does make me a better woman of God when I react with patience.  It does not make me a better woman of God when I have a house that is always in control, but it does make me a better woman of God when I react with diligence.  It does not make me a better woman of God when I have my marriage always in control, but it does make me a better woman of God when I react with humility. 

The peace of this is overwhelming.  God knew that we would have no control over the uncontrollable, so He made sure to let us know that He didn’t expect it. 

And that is so much better than control.

“Have you not known? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable.”  
--Psalm 40: 28