I have cried out.
I have prayed.
I have walked in wilderness for months and now a quiet whisper of goodness seems to name each new day. Could it be over? Could I have walked through fire to actually reach the other side? Could it be that freedom and healing, for which I have prayed, are actually mine to claim?
I spent the last week of 2015 reading through my journals from the year. The last year was marked by a Grand African Adventure which broke down my concept of God. It included the giddy start to my first love and the painful process by which it ended. I endured failure and waiting in my academic life, followed by challenge and joy as I finished my undergraduate degree. I learned that heartbreak is real, it is tangible, its all encompassing. I experienced deep and lasting need. I pressed into emotions: anger, frustration, mourning. I cried, screamed, laughed, and talked incessantly with anyone who would listen. My year was marked by the very real ups and downs of life and change. It spoke of hurt and gladness. Understanding and lacking. But, mostly it proclaims profound faithfulness on the part of a Good, Good God.
There was a day in October where God said he would call me deeper still. In the midst of all that fall was, he asked me into wilderness and waited for me to say yes. I stumbled in, not by choice, and cast my eyes upward, desperate for a way out. But, he said, deeper still. So, I took my quivering hands and one by one pulled open my fingers. I sat there with my shaky palms facing our slanted ceiling and begged him, 'Papa, if I give it all to you, will you fill them again,' only to learn that my hands were empty to begin with. I had given up a relationship, I had not sacrificed my life for his kingdom. I had made a choice to walk away from the "not best thing", I had not moved to a foreign place to preach the gospel, or forsake all comforts. My hands were empty and still he came. Each day after that one I walked with God. Mornings were quiet and lonely. Just me, the whistling tea kettle and my Jesus Calling. As I walked out the door to go be teacher, I read words that would remind me of God's promise. I would trust them and glean strength from them. As my anxious heart would beat faster when I neared my exit, I would whisper peace and accept it. It was small and shaky, but it was faith.
Then it came. November 20, my last day teaching. I pulled into the parking lot and burst into tears because I had done it. God had done it . With all the deeper still and wilderness and empty hands he had brought me to the end with perfect sustenance. November 20 became December 11. I said goodbye to my students, finished my portfolio, accepted a future job, bought all my Christmas presents and waited. Soon my quiet mornings disappeared in favor of sleeping in. My slow cups of tea became travel mugs of coffee and that deep-rooted faithfulness drifted into random acknowledgements. Days were becoming less of a struggle. Life was more normal. My heart ached less frequently and my mind didn't wander as often. Slowly the idea of self-sufficiency replaced my deep need and I walked through my Mondays and Tuesdays without so much as a 'Good morning, Jesus'. Eventually though, I learned that he had a not-so-new girlfriend and that semblance of a solid foundation shattered because I wasn't good enough. I wasn't wanted. I wasn't needed. I wasn't moved on enough. And I was mad because my heart beat anxiously again, and the memories tugged at my contentment. And the wanting sank too deeply. My heart broke. Just as quickly as I believed I was good. I was needy again. It happened that way, so I opened my journals and learned from my old self that I had been in this place before and God was calling me deeper still.
Now it's January 20 and I realized I have not forgiven him. After all this time and all this process and all the letting go, my "empty" hands are actually gripping so tightly to a sense of justice. A feeling deep in my gut that tells me he owes me something. When really he owes me nothing at all. Or maybe all he owes me is to become what God intended and to live that precious life fully. After all this time I still have nothing to give. After all I have done and worked for, I am still needy because after all, God is the one on the throne.
Recently, I find myself staring at two versions of myself, hesitantly asking God if it is over. If I can pack up my tent and claim healed instead of healing. And, I think, he says, deeper still, because there is faith to be learned in the mundane. There is faith to be learned when things are good. There is faith to be learned out of joy and gratitude and I do not yet know it. Again, I have to walk something out. It's I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you, and I forgive me, too. It's claiming my name as God's before anything else and it's practicing mundane faithfulness.
January 1 came and went. I wrote a "Shannafesto" for the first time in history because I sit in expectation for what this year will be and what these pages will teach me. But there is this idea that everything is a process. This whole idea of forgiveness has less and less to do with the boy and more to do with grace upon grace. It's about trusting that God has got it and that is good. The most perfect good.
After reading through all my journals I realized that I write about faith the most. The concept of faithfulness is something I strive for, but this process allowed me to understand that in all my striving and trying to achieve this perfect faithfulness, I have become faithful. I know from where my strength comes because I experienced a season in which I could not do a day without leaning into the Spirit. I know from where my joy comes because my heart hurt and there were people that made my stomach hurt from laughter instead. This is what it is to know him and that is all these empty hands long for.
"Behold, this we have searched out; it is true. Hear, and know it for your good"
Job 5:27
