to those who live in darkness

When he looks at me, looks through me to the diplomas signed over to dust, I think of them: the ones who bang their heads against the wall and walk with ringing in their ears and move along to a melody that never ends. I know the words of the song they sing, the anthem of the club we never asked to join. 

When he speaks, it’s clear he’s never been a member and has never read the bylines. He leans uncomfortably close and shines a light in my eyes, and I wish I could take the flashlight out of his hands and reveal to him what I’ve discovered in the dark.

When he looks at me, looks through me toward his shelves full of answers, I think of them: the ones who sit in his big chair and listen to his long words; I wonder if he recognizes what is coming out of his mouth, the silk-spit that weaves a web and traps the ones who dare to come close: your problem can’t be solved, there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re doing this to yourself, the pain isn’t real, it’s real but it’s not going away.

He goes away.

He leaves without giving an answer, and by the time I am home, the blackness seems deeper than before.

I crawl forward on bruised knees, stretching out hands to grab at what I know is there. I reach out, and I can’t see, but I’ll trust someone who could. Isaiah, he saw the Lord “seated on a high and lofty throne,” and he wrote that the Son of God “Himself bore our sicknesses… carried our pains.”

I think of them: the ones who have been abandoned by doctors, doubted by loved ones, shut out by those who don’t understand. I ache to tell them what I've discovered in the dark: when you know that Jesus has stepped down from heaven and stepped into suffering and taken on your hurts – it changes everything. 

When I think of them, those who deal with loneliness because others cannot comprehend the depth of their pain, I thank my God for His kindness: not only is He able to shoulder their burdens, but His comfort comes with the friendship of One who understands. 

When I think of them, I think of Him, and I rejoice, for I have forsaken Him far more than any doctor has forsaken me, and yet, my Jesus says, "Come." 

Because of our God’s merciful compassion, the Dawn from on high will visit us to shine on those who live in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace. ~ Luke 1:78-79

a note for the new year

A poem-prayer for 2013:
(that I am posting from the blanket-nest, snuggled warm reading this....)

"With mingling hope and trust and fear
I bid thee welcome, untried year;
The paths before me pause to view;
Which shall I shun and which pursue?
I read my fate with serious eye;
I see dear hopes and treasures fly,
Behold thee on thy opening wing
Now grief, now joy, now sorrow bring.
God grant me grace my course to run
With one blest prayer - His will be done."

~ Elizabeth Payson Prentiss, 1842

too much?

She sits in my car, and the tears stream down her cheeks and reflect the lights of angry Houstonians on their way home from work, and she presses her head against the window and whispers, “I am so unhappy.”

And she climbs out of my car, and the door slams shut, and my heart clenches, closes, before the brokenness of this world can cut deeper, but it’s too late.

It’s too much.

A week later, I am turning back onto the freeway when a quiet voice trembles in my passenger seat with the news of another who hurts with hopelessness so deep she is ready to end her life. 

The conversation ends, and the messenger disappears into the night, and the darkness has never been so thick. 

It’s too much.

Later that evening, I drive home in the fog, the world a blur, and I pull in front of the house and drag my body upstairs and set my phone on the dresser and begin to pick up a textbook off the floor, a folder under the bookshelf, a binder inside my closet, filling the blue backpack with item after item. The shuffling sound the pages make as they brush against the inside of the bag has never been so loud, and I turn back to the dresser to make sure I didn't miss a phone call, but the phone hasn't rung, so I continue to pick up and put in and turn around and check again and continue until one phrase fills my mind and forces me to sit.

Words that once made me glad now make mockery of my worst fear: “living hope” becomes a joke, twisted wordplay that dances to my doubts. When awaiting the worst, the news of a death, “life” taunts, and trust totters.

Emotional exhaustion only eggs on the Enemy, who finds vulnerability an easy target. He brings to mind old pain, imprinting the past upon the present, drawing upon material I had stopped thinking about years ago: my introduction to evil, the first encounter I recall, with my carpool sitting next to me, princess sketches stuffed into the pocket of the minivan, her answers to questions unasked, the birth of her baby sister, the burial soon after, the funeral of the child they named Hope; it never leaves you, the day Hope was buried; the night the oxygen didn’t work, when calls were made to the doctor to Grandpa to the hospital, and I walked restless through the waiting room,  Mom at the front desk, my chart marked red with misinformation, not suicidal, they’re suicide headaches.

And I am brought back, overwhelmed, over it all.

It’s too much.

And I am brought down, face-first before God. He speaks, His Word steadies, and salvation breaks through, breaks apart the darts set into motion by Satan. The Enemy’s lies lay in submission, bowing flat before the throne of God, but, really, they never stood a chance.

Post-it notes (for the next night that will most likely be spent sitting straight up in bed, trying to process the painful problems):

Lie: God is not equipped to handle the situation if I go to sleep.

Truth: God loves the people I care about more than I do. He is all-powerful and far more equipped to handle these situations than I am. He does not have issues staying awake. He is a tried and true protector with wisdom that supersedes any earthly counsel. He provides perfect peace, consistent comfort. He draws near to the brokenhearted and the hurting.

Indeed, the Protector of Israel does not slumber or sleep.  The Lord protects you; the Lord is a shelter right by your side. ~ Psalm 121:4-5

Lie: I should stay awake, anxious, awaiting news that probably won't come regarding a situation I can't control.

Truth: God keeps watch. . . . GOD keeps watch.
He watches over His nest like an eagle and hovers over His young; He spreads His wings, catches him, and lifts him up on His pinions. ~ Deuteronomy 32:11

Lie: All of this – this pain, this situation, this life, this world – it’s more than I can handle.

Truth: The situation might be more than I can handle, but it is does not go outside of the infinite boundaries of God's abilities. He gives what we need to endure, and He gives it out of kindness,  meeting us in our weakness, bringing glory to His name.
'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'  ~ 2 Corinthians 12:9
...my God will supply all your needs according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus. ~ Philippians 4:19
As a father shows compassion to his children, so the LORD shows compassion to those who fear Him. For He knows your frame; He remembers that we are dust. ~ Psalm 103:13-14

He knows.

When it's all just too much, God is more than enough.