??“A burdened heart is not broken. It’s beating with purpose and in tune with its creator’s heart.”
??Last night, we did a listening prayer exercise as a squad, and this sentence was written down on the sheet of paper I had torn out of my notebook and written my name on.
We all lined up our papers next to each other and then went and prayed, seeking words from the Lord to give to each other as encouragement. Someone ( I don’t know whom) received this word from the Lord to give specifically to me; the moment my eyes drank these words in, I felt as though I had been completely stripped bare. ??
With much of who I am and how I see the world at stake right now, I am unsure of how to process these words.?? I know they pierce through my core, and I realize that the power they carry resonates within my entire being.
??“A burdened heart is not broken…” Then what could it possibly be? ??Why do these burdens feel so heavy? What gives them weight? ??For the first time in almost five years, I find myself wanting to write about it. ??
Two weeks in, and India is breaking me. It’s breaking my resolve, it’s breaking down my walls, it’s breaking my convictions, my boundaries, my understanding of who I am and how the world works.?? There are times when I hate this process of breaking down. It’s not comfortable, it’s not easy and it’s certainly not peaceful.?? God has been making it incredibly clear to me that there is so much work to be done on my heart, and the gravity of what lies ahead is exhausting. I have been struggling with feeling homesick and discontent and like I have nowhere left to run away from everything that makes me uncomfortable. The scary part is that I’m only just beginning to realize I have been running for a very,very long time, friends. ??
All of this extremity can be overwhelming at times, but somehow in the midst of all this burden, a fire has awoken in my heart. This alone is a beautiful gift. It’s a spark of inspiration that I have not felt fanning through these bones in years. For whatever reason, I have felt so stopped up of words; I have run away from writing because it has been easier to forget pain and practice being numb instead, rather than writing it down and reliving it succinctly. ??
For those who don’t know my history, there was a time in my life when it completely revolved around the practice of writing. Looking back, it seems incredibly alien and distant because it’s been so very long since I’ve written anything other than a poorly organized blog post here and there. I stopped writing roughly four or five years ago because I was badly burned by someone who was one of the biggest supporters of my writing at the time, and the heart does not quickly forget what it feels like being destroyed by a person you trust absolutely. After that, I stoutly denied myself the gift and flatly told myself that I would never again share with the world my heart in the form of written words again. ??Especially not in the form of fiction or prose. It was easier to forget the whole practice and move on to other things.
Occasionally, I kept up with my previous blog, because I’ve never felt that blogs have counted as? writing to me; writing down events that have happened is simply a form of recording history. Writing from the heart is completely different, and that is what I had sworn off so drastically all those years ago. The most intimate part of my soul would never again see the light of day. That always had been the deepest part of me that I vowed nobody would ever see again, because the power it holds is too great; the power it holds is that which can completely destroy me. I know this because it’s happened once already and up until now, I have been so adamant that it will never happen again.
?
In my defense, I haven’t much left to destroy. I cannot withstand the force of another utter decimation. ??If honesty is what you’re looking for, I’m still reeling from the first one. I often find myself longing for the days before, when I was strong enough to withstand any sort of pain, or surprise, or criticism- but those days are long gone.
I have been left in shambles; sometimes it feels as though I am bereft of feeling, bereft of adequacy, bereft of confidence, bereft of a natural outlet for healing. ??Words have left me, like a flight of sparrows. One by one, in a fragmented formation, they have leapt from my heart and soared silently away- only to be caught in a dangerous storm, and fated to never return. I have watched them fly away, without question. Hollow eyes following the pattern of their flight until they are no longer visible on the lonely expanse of horizon. Hollow heart, void of any strength to react. God, where are you in this? The question I should have been asking. It was also a question I didn’t have the strength to comprehend. ??I let words leave me, and I didn’t even put up a fight for them to stay.
There was a time in my life when words were all I had left, and if it weren’t for words, I wouldn’t be here. Looking back, I can’t believe I got to a point where even the one solitary thing that saved my sanity wasn’t important enough to fight for, because I had reached such a depth of brokenness like I had never before known.
But it did happen. I let it happen. I let it happen, and I never set out to search for words again after that. “It is what it is,” I told myself, and threw myself into other outlets for processing. Things like binging on Netflix and gorging myself on expletives, sweet potato fries and gulping down anti-anxiety meds just to be able to sleep through the night without being haunted by the mere memory of words. ??I self-prescribed with soft and sad indie music, puppy cuddling and staying up past 1am, playing too many rounds of Jenga with friends over drinks.
When the longing got too swollen to bear, I escaped to the ocean. The waves have always quieted my restless soul, because it is in their presence that I most clearly hear the voice of Christ ministering comfort to my soul and balm to my wounds. ??But India does not allow for running away or self-prescribing. I don’t have access to Netflix, or sweet potatoes; there is no local dive bar, no Jenga, and there are no puppy cuddles nor ocean waves here in Manipur. ??
Here, there are looming mountains that are worshipped as gods, dusty, garbage-lined streets, and intense rainstorms. There is a burning sun, there are cement walls, there is nowhere to be alone, and yet somehow, suddenly, devoid of all my other outlets for running away- I hear a fluttering on the wind like a thousand tiny wings returning from a long journey, and my heart begins to stir. Can it be that words are returning?
??As I sit here, facing the untouched canvas that is my new life, I can feel the words beginning to come home. Their long winter has ended. My winter is only just beginning; this season of self-improvement and Spirit-led transformation that I’m entering is one that will be very hard at times- this I can feel. I am sure, however, that the words have begun to return to me and this sensation is bringing warmth into my icy extremities once again, slowly but surely.
??So, it must be true then, these words that a squad mate received from God for me.
My brokenness has metamorphosed from brokenness to burdening- and maybe, just maybe- this word spoken from the Lord is a true prophesy. Maybe my heart is beating with purpose, once again. My life prayer comes to mind, and I recite it obsessively in the wake of this uprooting. Tune my heart to sing thy grace. Tune my heart to sing thy grace. Tune my heart to sing thy grace.
??“A burdened heart is not broken. It’s beating with purpose and in tune with its Creator’s heart.”
