I am done.
That’s what I tell myself. Or maybe what I hear. I hear it
in the early hours of the day. I hear it as I slip into sleep.
Done.
I know. You’re hoping for me to finish the sentence. Well,
okay.
With waiting. With hoping. With dreaming. With believing
that something will be made from the ashes. (Don’t even start with the “beauty
from ashes” songs. Don’t. even.) With praying. I prefer yelling. Maybe
sometimes mixed with begging.
I asked Him. Asked Him for years not to make it turn out
this way. I played and replayed the “worst possible scenario,” and still it
came.
I can hear the laughter in the background. Sinister
bellowing.
Fine. You win! Cause, yep, you guessed it. I am done.
But here’s the dumb thing. I get paid to talk about God and
what He’s done. I get paid to talk about what He’s doing now. Sometimes it
sucks. Last week I was counting cursor blinks.
One, two, three, four…
What could I possibly have to say? Umm, I don’t get Him.
Umm, why does He allow the wicked to prosper? How should I know? They’ve been
prospering for years. Umm, yeah, I have a serious list of all my
disappointments and a few complaints for Him. Can I use that?
Also, did I mention I was dealing with parables. They make
me nuts. NUTS.
No, they aren’t easy because they’re stories. They’re hard.
Shocking, disturbing. Yes, they mess with me.
But do you know what also happens? Somehow I start typing.
Writing out silly things about God sending the Holy Spirit to do the work we
can’t possibly do on our own.
In the end, there are paragraphs of words. Words I believe.
Words of what is buried deep in my heart. The deepest places in me that wrestle
with the mysteries of God. And I realize I would defend Him with everything in
me, though I have no idea what He’s doing. I can’t make sense of what He’s done, but I love Him.
Next, I’m forced to write about Advent. It gets easier. The
writing, that is. Not Advent. Because it’s mixed with groaning, and as much as
I smile when I view the purple stolls across the Eucharist table, I hurt for
friends lost in brokenness and uncertainty this season. For friends waiting and
hoping for good news. For those feeling betrayed, by their bodies, their loved
ones, and maybe even their God.
I come home and fry up tostada shells, and I pray.
I ache. I utter. I sigh.
I’m not done. To Whom else could I go?
