Over the past weeks I haven’t been posting. I know, I know, I’m sorry for not being dependable. I’m trying to figure this whole writing thing out and what I realized is that, like anything you decide to make habit, it ebbs and flows with the seasons of your life. And then you get annoyed. And then you at some point arrive on how to make it stable and present despite all the seasons that arise. I’m not there yet.
What I have realized is that writing is hard. There are days when I don’t really want to confront myself. I’d rather ignore the parts of me that are rising up. I guess I’ve got a little more avoidance in me than I really want to admit. Therapists don’t regularly view avoidance as positive. Sometimes it’s annoying. It always has meaning though.
My writing avoidance has meaning.
The past month or so has been an emotional rollercoaster. Some days are filled with excitement and joy and expectancy about the year ahead, while others are filled with terrifying thoughts of living intimately with these crazy people I don’t know. And that’s just inside of my head. Outside of my head, I was moving from my apartment, saying hello to turning 31, and starting saying goodbye to clients. Each morning has had overwhelming tasks to complete as I piled on the have-tos.
Not only has writing meant another thing to do, but also it meant stepping onto the roller coaster of emotion and riding it, seeing where it ends. So I’ve been trying to do that lately. The roller coaster thing. And I’ve learned a few things about myself. Read on and hear a little bit.
Thanks for sticking with me, friends.
Christi
Last month I went away to a women’s retreat. If you would’ve asked me going into that weekend what I needed from God, I’m not sure I could’ve told you.
I got into the car on Thursday afternoon feeling like I needed to be still.
I don’t know if it ever happens for you, but for me, sometimes, when life gets a bit overwhelming and feelings a bit vulnerable, I feel like a scared animal, pausing in the woods with ears pricked and heart thudding.
I’m so still. It’s as if I’m waiting for whatever could, should, or might pounce up on me. I think I’m taking a moment to breathe, but really what I am doing is anticipating attack. I’m quiet, all eyes wide, scared about what I’m feeling and wondering what else might be able to hurt me in this vulnerable state.
But of course I couldn’t have told you that Thursday afternoon. All I knew was that I needed quiet. But shoot, my mom is next to me. Clueless and jabbering away. I kept trying to think of ways to tell her how I was feeling, but none of them seemed accurate (truthful) and I didn’t know what to say (didn’t want to).
Frankly, I was too raw to be real.
Sorry, Mom.
When I’m waiting on attack like that, when a week has been hard and my heart feels a bit ripped apart. When there’s just a few too many people hurting and when their grief touches all the way into my soul, I think I forget about God.
Yes, I forget God.
It’s awful, I know.
You know those 1-10 pain scales in the doctors office? I think about my life pain like that. When my life pain is at a 4, when maybe I look like the teeth gritted emoji, I hear God. I see Him and ask questions and throw out sadness and helplessness.
It’s good. Really. God and I have got it.
And then there’s the awful, heartbreaking moments of life.
When the pain is unbearable and feels like it’s exploding out of you. When life pain is a 10. Those are what I like to call my “bathroom floor” moments of life. Because somehow, that’s where I always end up. Every time number 10 hits, I’m on the floor, bawling. And God’s with me. Right next to the toilet, catching my tears. Grieving my heartache. Loving me. I see Him there. I feel Him.
But I’m learning that in the in-betweens of life, when my pain has more of a straight faced emoji feel to it, in the moments when I can control my tears but my heart sinks. In the moments when I feel both the freedom to choose God and just enough pain to make me want to close off, those, THOSE are the moments I forget God.
And that’s where I am now.
That’s where I’ve been.
And some of it has to do with leaving and this amazing World Race and some of it doesn’t. The past year of my life I’ve been learning to feel the depths and nuances of my sadness and grief. To allow both myself and people into a part of myself that has been table-for-one-reserved for the past 30 years. I’m trying desperately to hold onto and seek the God who I know is right there with me.
I imagine sharing myself with God in these moments to be like marriage.
Although I’m not sure, since I’m pretty single, but let’s try it out anyway. I imagine the majority of difficulty times in the intimacy of marriage not to be when you are bawling and helpless and clinging to any hope thrown your way, but rather the small moments of heartache. It seems that in those daily, weekly, monthly seconds of life, you have a choice to share your heart, your pain and hurt, or to stay still. Stay alone, heart thudding and scared, barely breathing for fear of being seen.
It takes courage to be seen and known and allowing yourself to be loved.
To share the real. The deep. The you.
It means two things for me, and maybe for you: 1. We have to feel it first. All of it. Even that ugly part. (Hint: It’s not actually ugly.) 2. We have to try and give it words when all we want to do is nod and smile and laugh. Or not talk at all.
I think the person who came up with the pain chart in the doctor’s office is brilliant.
Sometimes all we have in our pain is a number. One syllable. One emoji. One sob.
This is me, sharing my one syllable today.
Only it’s me, so it’s like 8 paragraphs, but you get the idea.
Feel the feels. Send the one emoji. Say the one word if that’s all you have. Share yourself with the world. We want to hear it.
Here we go. Let’s all be brave.
