Day 36

All my life I’ve struggled against the lie that I’m not worth pursuing. Don’t get me wrong. People have sung my praises, exclaimed what I wonderful wife and mother I’ll make someday. But let’s face it. Usually those words get spoken in the context of my domesticity—canning, cooking, sewing, the art of corralling children. What a woman really wants to know is—all my practical skills aside, is my heart worth fighting for, knowing, and loving? And even if those affirming voices weren’t referring to my industrious skill set, they’ve never been the right voices. Fathers and mothers and girlfriends are supposed to say those things. Even young married men noting how lucky some guy will be to have me as a wife feels a little hollow. If I was that worth pursuing, what kept you from trying? All the affirming men I know chose somebody else. Not me. So what does that say?

I feel like I’m intimidating, especially to men. I have vision for my life. When I know that I want something, I go for it. I don’t sit around putting my life on hold waiting for some honorable man to get his act together and work up the courage to ask me out. So I probably come across as a bulldozer. Stay out of her way. Someone once told me I needed to work on my come hither look. And as the Lord has worked healing in my heart I’m softening. But I also want someone man enough to not be intimidated by me. To swallow his fear, to show up at my doorstep with a two-by-four, thunk me (gentlemanly of course) on the head and say, hey, can I bulldoze alongside of you?

Aaron told me over and over that I was worth pursuing. Maybe that’s why I thought he felt safe. Our first phone conversation lasted 2 ½ hours and I remember getting off and thinking, wow, he wasn’t intimidated by who I was even though I was up front and honest about some potentially dicey subjects. And he loved my vision of what I was called to do. I honestly didn’t know if it was possible for any man to fit those two things. But now the only man who has ever been brave enough to tell me (and show me) I’m worth it, turned out to not be worthy of that pursuit. So what does that mean?

I know the logical truth. I can recite it in my brain as the correct answer. I’m still worth it. Y’shua was the one who defined my worth and proved I was worth pursuing long before the idea of Aaron even existed. Yet, I’d be a liar to say those words don’t feel a bit empty now. I’m faced with the truth that the only man who ever bothered to pursue me wasn’t as honorable as he seemed. He was second string. Am I a second string woman? Of course I know I’m not, but tell that to my heart, not my brain.

I’m not a pessimist, and I’m not bitter. I don’t even have a desire to point any fingers at the honorable men I’ve been privileged to know and be invested in my life [this post is not a personal jab at any of you]. But these are the raw questions running through my mind that I’m forced to filter, the questions I’m sure a lot of women think but feel they are never allowed to speak. So here’s to speaking them. Here’s to not pretending everything’s okay when it’s not, so I can get to a place where it eventually will be. 

Day 35

Sifting aside the pile of grief, being single again has come as a relief. The tension between Aaron and my internship has been released. It’s freeing to be more single-minded and focused on what I know God has called me to. Living with ten other women, my time is never fully my own, but the way I spend it feels more right. My budget is tight, but I can make my own decisions about how to spend what I have. In retrospect I can see that being with Aaron was never fully healthy because parts of myself felt constrained. Now I’m finding myself again and rediscovering things I love to do that bring life to my spirit. [Note to self: while laying my life down for another will be a part of marriage, the man I marry should not make me feel I have to hold parts of myself back.]

I lived large portions of my life before Aaron absolutely content with my singleness. It was something I fought for long and hard, and something I relished when the fruit of that contentment came. I can get on a soapbox and preach for a long time about how singleness does not mean you’ve been robbed of God’s goodness. Marriage isn’t needed to encounter the fullness of God’s kingdom, despite the way Christian church culture seems to believe otherwise (see Redeeming Singleness by Barry Danylak). So I’m not afraid of singleness. But there’s a flip side to that coin.

Singleness was comfortable for me. It felt safe. Dating Aaron was scary, but I felt the Lord drawing me out to become vulnerable and trust Him with my heart in a way I never had before. I didn’t want to say no to His goodness for my life. So I took a deep breath and jumped off the cliff, not knowing what the bottom would look like. Landing hurt. But here’s the miracle in all this. I would’ve expected my heart to shut down. Well I tried the relationship thing. Look what it gave me. I’m just going to stay single. It’s safer and easier. I’m not trusting you again God. I expected my heart to shut back up like a clam. But it hasn’t.

Being with Aaron awakened something in me that wasn’t there before. He wasn’t the end result. But he gave me a taste of what partnership could look like. Despite his brokenness, I can glimpse further ahead to what marriage might contain. And my heart wants it. Singleness is not going to be the same this time.

So here I am just a month out from a broken engagement and I know that I’ll be willing to try this whole love thing again. Not yet. I have some more grieving to do. But more than one thing can be true at the same time. My heart aches and doesn’t want to have anything to do with another man right now; yet it wants to know the right one is out there. I can tell by the twinge of wordless grief that throbs when I least expect it—overhearing an honorable man be affirming towards his wife, the growing belly of a friend who is expecting, being around children, registry notifications I no longer need. They are echoes of what I thought my life was forming into, but now that’s no longer true. Perhaps, one day, that dream will get to reform. But for now, those things are out of reach. And that’s harder to grapple with this time around, because now I understand I want them.

So I’m back to the age old question—how do I can keep my heart honest, tender, and alive to good, God-given desires while sustaining the pain of having those desires go unfulfilled in the here and now? I’ve walked too far into both ditches on either side of this narrow line in the past. Neither one is life-giving. So this time will I be able to find a better balance?

Day 33

Can I measure the worth of one soul? Can I put a price tag on what is worthwhile to let them know they are loved, to be a part of their journey to the Lord?

I wrote in my journal on September 7 as I was expressing my fears to Y’shua about being able to make a decision to choose one man and no other when there is no going back: When I told Y’shua it was scary He pulled my face up gently to look at His. Look at me, He said. You’re not afraid of Me. He said He’s giving me Aaron, and I don’t think that’s me hearing from my soul. I’m still unsure, but His voice was confident, repeating it several times. That doesn’t mean marriage. It just means that now in this moment, this season, He’s giving me Aaron.

Someone told me this week that I may never know the full reason for why things happened the way they did, but she said the Lord found me trustworthy. Aaron needed something from this season, from the farm. And the Lord entrusted me to love him, to be the connecting piece. It seems a steep price to pay. I gave him so much of my time the past eight months, time that could’ve gone to my roommates, my family, my friends. I gave him my affection. I believed in him. I prayed for him, encouraged him. I sacrificed financially. I laid down my personal preferences. I told him I love you, something I’ve never done for any other man.

Some moments I’m tempted to think it was all a waste, that it robbed me. Would my relationships with my roommates be better if Aaron hadn’t been in the picture? Did he distract me from other things I could’ve or should’ve been learning or doing? Did my love for him steal from what I can give my husband someday? I could follow that rabbit hole a long ways…but I don’t want to. If I’m honest, my questions really translate to: was Aaron worth my love? Did he deserve all that sacrifice? From a human perspective—no. He wasn’t transparent and honest. He wasn’t worthy of stewarding my heart. And that’s where the boundary of the Lord’s protection stepped in to separate us. But from a kingdom perspective, was he worth it? The answer has to be yes. Was it worth surrendering my life to love a man for seven months because Y’shua wanted me to? I can’t put a price tag on that.

Part of me wants to know what Aaron is choosing to do with his life now. Did my sacrifice and love change him? Will he make stronger decisions now? Will he get out of debt? Will he know the Lord in a deeper way? Will he be more humble and teachable? I hope so. But I can’t measure the worth of what I gave based on how Aaron chooses to use it. I gave because Y’shua asked. That has to be enough. And Y’shua says Aaron is worth it. I was worth it to Y’shua, so Aaron must be worth it to me.

Day 32

I’m beginning a journey back through my journal entries over the past nine months. It’s something I’ve known I would need to do to find healing. Understanding. Clarity. I just haven’t had the strength to face up to it till now. I’m looking for answers to questions. While I’m expecting to find some, I also know this process is bound to raise even more. But maybe the point is to identify what all the questions are, and then come to terms with what isn’t answerable. Let God be God.

As I read just the first few weeks of entries—our first phone conversations, first meeting, the wrestle in my heart over fear in choosing to say yes to giving us a chance—one thing stands out the most. I desperately wanted Y’shua’s direction, and I asked Him for it over and over again.

July 17 – Abba, what are you up to in the midst of this? Lead my heart.

July 19 – Abba, give me wisdom how to proceed wisely, to guard my heart where necessary and yet be open to whatever this is…How can I test who he is and see what he’s like in his weak moments?... I’ve never felt this way before. Is that a good thing? Is Aaron capable of partnering with me, leading me spiritually, shepherding my heart in a healthy way that will sanctify and draw the best out of me?

July 27 – He’s interested and I’m going to keep talking to him, but if there are red flags raise them and raise them quickly. Protect my heart. If this from you bring wise counsel and peace.

August 8 – I sense a growing affection and emotional investment and pray that is the Lord’s leading and not just my flesh wishing something into being…Show us if we might serve the gospel better together than apart. And if this not of you, bring the doors clearly shut.

August 12 – Abba, that’s your job to guard and shepherd my heart. Bring clarity.

From the beginning I asked the Lord to lead, which creates the following realization—I have to trust that He did, that he answered my prayers. He didn’t answer them the way I expected or wanted. The timing wasn’t right from my perspective. But he did answer. He raised the flags. He brought the needed counsel. He offered clarity. He protected my heart. It took seven months. My heart cries why so long? Yet can I really question God? He was faithful. He spoke in time. And He is good. This I will not question. I cannot afford to question Him in this.

I spoke this past week with a woman in whom I have a lot of respect. I brought her some of my questions and confusion about what it means to hear the voice of God, the mistrust I have of myself right now to hear correctly. She told me it’s not about you being able to hear correctly. That puts the burden on your shoulders. You are fallible. You’ll make mistakes. You’ll mis-hear. It’s about knowing that God is always speaking, and that He is capable of making known to you His will.

I’m still mulling that over. It’s going to change the way I pray, the way I understand God’s will. It goes against a lot of what I’ve been trained to do and believe, that discerning God’s will is largely in my court, dependent on how close I can make my connection with God, how well I can hear Him. But if it’s up to God to be clear with me then that makes Him God and me not. It puts me in a position to rely upon His grace, His direction, His sovereignty—everything that makes Him God.

The realization sinks like a balm into my panic over whether or not I did something wrong in making decisions about Aaron. Whether I heard right or not, Y’shua came through in His timing. He made his will clear. It wasn’t too late. He broke through. He answered my prayers. So there’s nothing left for me to do accept be grateful, to see His firm, merciful love—His severe mercy—bleeding through the mess.

Day 29

I tried to encounter the Lord today and at first it was a disaster. I had a lot of questions, things I wanted Him to address, to show me what I could do to fix things that weren’t right. But as I talked with Him I didn’t feel safe. I was frustrated and unable to connect, unsure of His voice, filled with doubt.

So then we switched tracks. He took me to a place in my mind that was just a big blank darkness. Formless and void. We sat facing each other in the middle of this nothingness. I could feel all my worry and frustration and this jumbled mass of concern trying to hammer its way in. Suddenly Y’shua stood up commandingly, spread His arms, and pushed it all back. I’m going to do this, He said. You are not going to do this.

I tend to approach healing (like all other aspects of my life) as a task or challenge to tackle and master. If I just work at it hard enough healing will come. And then it’s so frustrating when it doesn’t work and I swing around and land back in the same mess again. Today Y’shua told me He’s not going to heal something until I have learned the lesson of how to let Him do it. I have a niggling suspicion (perhaps my stubborn tenacity) this might take a while.

Stars appeared in this place of black void. We lay on our backs looking at them. But then the sky cracked as if it were a ceiling. Someone above was breaking a hole. Light poured through the opening and hit me. Exposure. Chunks of plaster (or whatever that ceiling/sky was made of) fell, landing all around me. Me, covered in dust. Don’t move, Y’shua said. Stay right there.

I have so many hard things on my plate right now—grieving over the separation from Aaron, generational tendencies that grief has exposed, girls in my house (especially one) that are hurting and need a heart-transforming miracle. In all these areas my impulse is always what can I do? How can I find a solution? How can I fix it? I have so many questions. I need solutions. Those things were the chunks of sky falling around me, coating me in their mess, nearly smashing my head. And the Lord says, don’t move. You need to just lie there. Another chunk falls. Look at me. But don’t move. Just look at me.

How do I do this? How do I take situations that are screaming for solution, choose to partner with the Lord, and yet in that partnership do nothing. Let Him do it. Stop moving. Embrace the mess. Look to Him for the solution. Be okay with not getting a solution—at least not until it’s time, or not the one I am expecting.

I walked home and looked up that verse in Psalms, be still and know that I am God. Psalm 46 is all about God coming to do war on behalf of His people.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in times of trouble.

Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way [or ceilings crack and fall]…

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High.

God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved.

[She is still, not doing anything, stable and it’s because God is with her.]

The nations rage, the kingdoms totter; [even bigger scale than my problems]

He utters his voice; the earth melts.

He makes wars cease to the end of the earth;

He breaks the bow and shatters the spear;

He burns the chariots with fire.

“Be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations.”

I looked up “still.” It means to slacken. Abate. Cease (trying to figure it out on your own). Consume. Draw (toward evening). let the Lord be the one to bring to a finish. Fail. be a failure and know that I am God. Be faint and feeble. exactly how I feel. Forsake (your own ideas of how to fix this). Idle. Let alone. just leave it be; don’t move. Stay. Be still. Be slothful. Weaken. 

Day 26 - Easter Sunday

Easter is all about resurrection. Dead things coming to life. Broken things being healed. Hope that what is wrong will be made right.

This year it’s hard to celebrate Easter with an abundance of joy. I don’t feel like rejoicing. I’m grateful for my redemption, but my worship took the form this morning of tears, of silence, sitting in my chair unable to stand with the others around me, mouthing the words to a song as an act of obedience, making a choice to trust.

You're rich in love, and You're slow to anger

Your name is great, and Your heart is kind

[there’s that word again—KINDNESS]

For all Your goodness I will keep on singing

Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find

Bless the Lord, O my soul, O my soul

Worship His holy name

Sing like never before, O my soul

I'll worship Your holy name

I haven’t reached resurrection in this season. I’m still staring suffering in the face. Yet I have a promise to cling to. What I sow does not come to life unless it dies. And what I sow is not the body that is to be, but a bare kernel…But God gives it a body as he has chosen…What is sown is perishable; what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power (1 Corinthians 15). I feel like a bare kernel, weak, stripped naked, nothing but the honest pain of my heart to offer. I feel dishonorable. Yet if I trust Y’shua and surrender to this season—accept what He has chosen—He will raise me to honor. He will turn this into something in which to be proud and confident—the Lord’s firm hand on my life bearing fruit to abundance. I’m not there yet, but I have to live towards that promise, draw from it the strength to keep going.

Easter means something a bit different to me this year. It means my suffering holds meaning even though the jubilance of resurrection morning has yet to fully arrive. It is here and yet it is not fully here. Y’shua has not yet come back a second time to right all wrongs and wipe the last of tears away. But he will. So I press into the cross. Lord, teach me to embrace suffering, in whatever shadow of a form it comes compared to yours. Death is not the end. Life comes. Eventually. If I have faith and patience to stay where He wants me to stay.

Day 25

I found tears as I watched the sunset tonight walking through my parents’ field. Yesterday I overheard someone say God experiences everything with us. I’ve been mulling it over and it has surprised me. God is sad right now.

I expected God to be gracious and understanding as I grieve, but not sad. It was His voice I obeyed that led me into and out of my relationship with Aaron. I did what He wanted, so wouldn’t He be happy? And He is pleased—with me—and yet something else is true. He is sad. I am sad, so He is sad. He is grieving this loss with me and feels the pain of it just as much as I do.

And somewhere… He is grieving with Aaron.

Aaron betrayed my trust. He doesn’t feel safe to my heart anymore. So the easiest thing was to turn off my love, to not miss him. And it feels like I haven’t, like a switch flipped inside. One day I was what people consider madly in love. Then there were a couple days of confusion. Then the love was just…gone. I didn’t want to see him or talk to him. I wanted a clean separation. It seemed best, healthy. And mostly I think it is. Yet tonight, sensing the Lord grieving with me, my heart cracked open just enough to realize I still care.

He’s hurting. And I, more than anyone else, know what the many facets of that pain may look like. And yet he’s gone. I can offer him no comfort. Is he okay, Abba? Is he going to be all right? Will you take care of him? I still love him. Will you comfort him? Will you touch the wounded places in his heart? For the first time I wanted to know how he was. Has he found a job, a place to live, community to help him walk this out? I invested so much in him, in understanding the inner workings of his soul, in attuning to his needs, and now there’s nothing I can do to meet them. Only God knows if I’ll ever even see him again. And so I cried. And the Lord cried with me.

Because two things are true. He orchestrated this season of our lives. Yet He never designed separation to exist. And so He grieves. He experiences our pain, and He grieves.

Day 24

Wednesday was the first morning I woke up without feeling buried under an oppressive weight of sadness. It was both relieving and unsettling.

I’ve been afraid of having good days. I told Aaron I loved him, and if I’m too happy too soon it feels like that might make me a liar or a traitor. Did I not really mean it? Was I just saying the words to make him happy? Could I have really loved him if the feeling can dissipate so quickly? I made this decision to end our relationship, and while I don’t have regrets about my choice, I’m fully aware that Aaron didn’t have a say in it. I know he must be hurting, and his grief was not self-imposed. So if I have a good day just three weeks since this all happened, does that make my heart callous? Insensitive? I feel I owe Aaron a time of penance to prove my love wasn’t superficial or cheap and easily thrown aside. C.S. Lewis wrote something similar in A Grief Observed: “Still, there’s no denying that in some sense I ‘feel better,’ and with that comes at once a sort of shame, and a feeling that one is under a sort of obligation to cherish and foment and prolong one’s unhappiness.”

Another aspect of my fear—if I have a good day (or perhaps a few) will people think I’m over it and stop checking on me or caring for my heart? And then when the next bout of tears come will they be frustrated, wondering why I can’t seem to leave my grief behind? Perhaps to you these things seem irrational. Even I can tell myself the right truths to combat these feelings, yet knowing something and letting it sink into the bone marrow of your soul are two very different things. Someone who has walked a similar pain told me guilt is part of the grieving process. It’s normal. Natural. So good news. I’m not crazy. [At least for that reason].

Yet just because it’s warranted doesn’t mean I should stay there. So how do I move beyond? You know your world has flipped upside down when it’s a brave thing to have a good day. Laughing takes courage.

Y’shua is starting to teach me the difference between sitting under a sorrowing spirit and the gift of real sadness. A sorrowing spirit feels oppressive, like a weight pressing upon my shoulders whispering, don’t you dare feel anything other than sad. And yet it’s not a real sadness because so many days I can’t access my tears. I can’t really grieve. It’s just a fog of vague pain. No clarity. No ability to lament and return to joy. Real sadness would allow me to do those things, and it comes coupled with the oil of joy so that there is a reprieve from the tears. Yet the concept of flipping back and forth so seamlessly between joy and sadness is foreign to me. My perfectionism drives me towards all or nothing. If I’m going to bother to do something then I must do it well. When I loved, I loved hard. Now I must grieve hard. But does that mean I must be sad all the time, or does grieving well mean something else? There’s no formula for this process—for anything like death, separation, or loss. Our spirits weren’t designed to know these things, and so we are forever left floundering through in an attempt to figure out something that is impossible to figure out.

Day 22

On January 17, 2014 I put this verse in my journal and wrote down the following…

“The mountain of the Lord is higher than all the others, all the nations will flow to it.” Isaiah 2:2

My life flows to you, Y’shua. It’s yours; not mine. My engagement and future marriage flow to you. It’s not what I want; it’s about what you want.

            Y’shua: Yes, but know I have your good in mind, daughter.

            Me: Loving Aaron is my chance to live out the gospel.

            Y: It is your chance to live out the gospel. It will be hard and beautiful and sanctifying and a sacrament of worship unto me.

Here’s another truth I remembered today and cried sharing with the girls in my house—Y’shua has answered my prayers. That day in January is not the only day I’ve offered my life to the Lord and told Him I want whatever He chooses. I’ve asked to be transformed, to be sanctified, to not be left the same, mediocre, unchallenged. And this season with Aaron is His way of asking, did you really mean it? Will you still mean it now when it actually costs something?

I never imagined in saying, Lord, whatever you want, that a broken engagement would be something He would choose. This doesn’t fit my box of what sacrifice and sanctification look like, and yet here I am being sanctified. When Y’shua told me loving Aaron would be hard and beautiful and sanctifying and a sacrament of worship, I thought He was referring to the refining process I hear marriage instigates. I never thought it would be this. And yet, what He told me is still true. Maybe even more so now. He led me to love Aaron. And every step of the way was hard and beautiful and sanctifying. And even in our separation that is still true. In some strange way, saying no was my way of loving Aaron too, of acknowledging the Lord had something better for us both, of refusing to enable his dysfunction, of pulling the truth out onto the table where it could no longer hide. What he chooses to do with this opportune pain is his choice. What I choose to do with it is mine, and I want to get to the other side of this and not just be okay, but be fully satisfied in the Lord’s choice for my life.

Day 20

I was reminded this morning of a conversation I had with God on a rooftop in China when I was seventeen. At the time I thought I had conducted myself as the ideal little Christian girl—no dating, no kissing, modest wardrobe—the whole nine yards, and therefore I was daft enough to believe that God owed me a really good marriage in return for my compliance to His rules. But that’s what the church as an organization generally trains us to believe, right? Follow these rules because they bring about these good outcomes. A + B = C. And here came God and disrupted all my thinking with a softly whispered question. Will you do this because you love me, because I ask this of you? Even if you never get the outcome you want? Essentially, what if A + B = Ø?  It was life-altering, that conversation, as I wrestled with God to surrender what I thought I was owed to love and obey His heart for me, for His sake and His alone, regardless of the outcome.

Entering this relationship with Aaron nine years later, I thought I was safe from all that. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to get married, but I was trying to open my heart to being vulnerable and accept God’s goodness for my life. I didn’t want to refuse to follow Him into a good thing because of fear. I was just obeying what He was asking of me. I didn’t feel like I was owed anything. But maybe that wasn’t true. If He was going to call me into dating, engagement, and marriage, then I think I had some preconceived notions of how that should look. I was open to things being unconventional to a certain degree (because let’s face it folks, when have I ever opted to do anything the conventional way?), but there was still a remnant of that good Christian expectation left within me. Date a certain way, hold good boundaries, throw in some conflict-resolution, add a serving of wise counsel and presto—a good healthy marriage and a happily-ever after (tempered of course with a realistic dose of hardship that the Lord would transform into something beautiful). The formula could still be boiled down to A + B = C.

But I did A. I did B. And C was not what happened. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s not the conventional story I was fed to believe about love. It’s nothing near a fairy tale. And I’m not saying this from a place of bitterness, but maybe more of a reality check about how we think about love in the Christian world. Letting the first man you fall in love with and kiss be the man you marry doesn’t always work out like we think it will. It’s a nice thought, but in my case unrealistic; and it wasn’t because I sinned or did something wrong. Love is just a lot more messy than that.

I can’t say I’ve gotten fist-raving mad yet, but I can feel anger stewing around somewhere in my heart—indignation that I did everything “right” and this is the outcome I was handed. But I was struck afresh today by the fact that God doesn’t owe me anything.

“When we stand back to consider the premise—that God owes us a good life—it is clearly unwarranted. If there really is an infinitely glorious God, why should the universe revolve around us rather than around him?” Timothy Keller from Walking with God through Pain and Suffering

God doesn’t owe me a marriage. Period. He doesn’t owe me a date or romance at all. He definitely doesn’t owe me a fairytale. And he even doesn’t owe me an explanation about Aaron. Because I know God’s heart I know He will be patient and understanding with me. He will be gentle and un-offended with my anger, my grief, my questions. He may even answer some of them in time. But the truth remains, He doesn’t owe me answers. I haven’t been robbed or cheated, or treated harshly. I have been treated with kindness. Rescued out of my sin and given an inheritance far above my worth. If we want to talk about what I’m owed, there are things much worse than broken engagements I could put on that list. It doesn’t change the fact that this is hard, and grieving is okay. But I’m slowly letting that truth sink into my spirit today. It helps to put things into perspective, like a pinhole of light poking through the oppressive ceiling of grief.

Day 18

“But safety, as the Cross shows, does not exclude suffering. All that was of course beyond me when I was a child, but as I began to learn about suffering I learned that trust in those strong arms means that even our suffering in under control. We are not doomed to meaninglessness. A loving Purpose is behind it all, a great tenderness even in the fierceness.” Elisabeth Elliot from The Path of Loneliness

A conversation I had this week between myself and Y’shua (Jesus):

Y: It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong to cause this pain. I caused this pain. It was my sovereign choice. You obeyed and I brought you here. Will you love Me?

Me: That’s a tough pill to swallow.

Y: Extremely bitter to the taste, but sweet once it’s down. Will you love Me?

I’m left thinking, to whom else would I go? You have life. I know I will find a way to swallow this pill, to submit my will and my emotions to Him in the midst of this pain, but for now it feels like I’m still sizing up the immensity of it, trying to imagine a way to fit it in my mouth, to swallow it down without choking. Some things can’t be rushed.

Day 17

One of the girls in my house tried to commit suicide two nights ago. My first response was pure selfishness. Dear Lord, not now. I don’t have the emotional capacity to deal with this. I can’t feel anything else painful. I have no strength to help the other girls walk through this. But I left where I was and went back to the house. Our house mom was gone, headed to the hospital. Most of our leaders were unavailable for similar reasons. So it was left to one of our neighbors and the oldest of us in the house to gather the others and break the news. We banded together and began a vigil until we heard that our housemate was going to pull through.

I thought I had nothing to give. And yet somehow I found the grace to push my own pain aside. I found the grace to pray, to offer hugs, to sing over the suicidal girl’s spirit, to look around the room assessing if each of my roommates were okay, to let one of them lay in my lap while I rubbed her back and ran my fingers through her hair. The strength came. I was tired. I’m still tired, but the grace came from somewhere beyond myself. For a little while my own pain seemed insignificant, placed in perspective against the bigger picture of life and ministry. I’m struck by the fact that two things are true at the same time. In the grand scheme of things, my pain is not so great. There are bigger things to live for and be passionate about, reasons to go on, others in more pain than I. And yet what is also true is that my grief is important. It needs to consume my world for a season in order to be processed. To me it is more important than anything else, and it should be. Today I feel both realities tugging on my heart. Caught between them, I ask you Lord to supply me grace for my heart to be sustained. 

Day 15

I got out of bed this morning which means I’m already doing better than yesterday. Although by the time I showered and ate breakfast I was already tired. This feeling weak and helpless is something wholly new to me. I’m so used to being strong, bucking up and pushing through, making things happen. But this time I can’t. As a friend pointed out to me, I’ve lived most my life caring for the needs of others, but in this season it’s a good day if I can manage to take care of myself. Which is hard living in a house with ten other women, some of whom I’m very aware are hurting and needy as well. But it’s my turn to let the needs of others go and learn to give voice to my own. It’s healthy, I’m told.

I’m sure this weakness is going to change me. It’s going to have a purpose. I have to believe that or else what’s the point of pressing on? I’m coming to the end of myself in a way I’ve never had to face before, which means the Lord is going to have to make Himself strong to me in a way I’ve never been able to let Him before. And maybe that’s the point. Or compassion. I’ve been so judgmental of others before, thinking, just get up and get out of bed. Go to work. Go to class. Don’t let it be an option. Just do the responsible thing. Grow up. And now here I am growing backwards, growing young, unable to be an ‘adult’ in the typical sense of the word. But somewhere in this topsy turvy kingdom, does that mean I am growing up after all?

Last night I finally worked up the courage to try and encounter the Lord. I was scared, and I told Him that. Because either I didn’t hear His voice correctly in the first place and then how can I know I’ll hear Him correctly now? Or, I did hear Him right and He intentionally led me into this season and put my heart in this place where He knew it would be broken. I’m growing to believe it’s the latter that’s true. He was patient with me. He understood my anger, my pain. He cried with me. He told me the time to face answers to my questions was not now. And that was comforting, at least a little. It was good to be on speaking terms again. And yet when I asked Him if all this pain of opening up my heart to be vulnerable and then having it exposed was necessary, He said that it was. And at the same time He carved the word KINDNESS into the trunk of the redwood tree in which we were sitting. He said, I have been kind to you.

Really? Somewhere down deep I know I will come to believe Him, trust Him again. But right now it doesn’t feel like kindness. It feels cruel. And I am left grappling with finding a way to put these two truths together, like pieces from two completely separate puzzles:

My heart is in so much pain.

The Lord is kind.

I feel exposed, betrayed, left helpless and physically aching from my broken heart.

The Lord has been kind, specifically, to me.

“The more we believe that God hurts only to heal, the less we can believe that there is any use in begging for tenderness. A cruel man might be bribed—might grow tired of his vile sport—might have a temporary fit of mercy, as alcoholics have fits of sobriety. But supposed that what you are up against is a surgeon whose intentions are wholly good. The kinder and more conscientious he is, the more inexorably he will go on cutting. If he yielded to your entreaties, if he stopped before the operation was complete, all the pain up to that point would have been useless. But is it credible that such extremities of torture should be necessary for us? Well, take your choice. The tortures occur. If they are unnecessary, then there is no God or a bad one. If there is a good God, then these tortures are necessary. For no even moderately good Being could possibly inflict or permit them if they weren’t.” –C.S. Lewis from A Grief Observed

Day 14

I left the house angry yesterday evening. I was triggered over a rule that had been put in place that was making me feel like a child, or a caged rat. I walked up the road to be alone, my eyes turned to the ground avoiding anyone I passed. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here. It’s too hard. Maybe if my heart was in one piece—but it’s not. My whole life I’ve always done the hard thing, and for once I’m tired of it. I want a reprieve.

I sat in a field and screamed. And that’s when, if I was honest, I knew my anger wasn’t so much about the rule as it was triggered by it. The anger was about my loss. Grief hit me like a tidal wave, harder than I’ve known yet. I cried and I screamed and I felt the anger rise up. The feeling is so raw I can’t even pinpoint yet where it’s directed—at myself? God? Aaron? I wondered if someone would come find me and force me to come back to the house, but no one did, and I curled up in the dirt and waited until the sun had completely set and the coyotes had begun to wail.

When the temperature had dropped and my muscles were tense from shaking, I stiffly made my way home where I slipped into bed with most of my clothes still on. This morning my heart still hurts. I’m torn between knowing I should be around people and not wanting anyone to be around me (which is hard in a house of eleven people). I have no words. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m tired of people asking me how I’m doing because there’s never an easy answer to that question and sometimes I have no clue. And there’s nothing anyone can do for me. Not really. I just have to succumb to this tidal wave and hope that one day I’ll ride it out. 

Day 12

Today I spoke with a man Aaron worked with on the farm. He didn’t offer details but he looked at me and said, You made the right decision. For two weeks now voices keep coming out of the woodwork confirming the decision I made. And while I’m grateful not to doubt my choice, I can’t help but wonder…where in the heck were all these voices for the past seven months when I was trying to discern if this relationship was wise in the first place?!

It’s not fair to put the weight of my choice on the shoulders of others. I don’t want to do that; it’s mine to shoulder and own. But it does confuse my heart. I feel like I’ve lived in a way that is not only open to but seeks out the counsel of those older and wiser, those who can see better than I can. I was trying to do that with Aaron. Honest. I got him around men I trusted and thought if something was wrong I would know about it, and yet that wasn’t the case. I guess I didn’t ask enough questions. People’s concerns slipped through the cracks and didn’t find their way to me until months later. And the ones I did catch wind of weren’t strong enough…or didn’t come from those I trusted most…or maybe my love was too blind to listen…or a mixed-up cocktail of all three.

The result is that I feel dumb, naïve, embarrassed. People tell me I have no reason to be, that I made a wise choice, I listened to my spiritual authorities, I made the hard decision. I didn’t say whatever and go ahead and marry him anyways like a lot of girls would. Sure. I may hear that in my head, but it doesn’t change the way I feel—like I was played, like I was fed the right lines that would unlock my heart and couldn’t see through the scheme. It’s not as bad as all that. I don’t want to disrespect Aaron. He’s not a sleazy player. I don’t think he meant to hurt me intentionally. But I do think his fear drew him to leave out portions of the truth, to deceive me in a roundabout way. And so I feel like my compassionate, trusting heart was taken advantage of.

My pride is what feels the most wounded [and yes I know this is a good thing but HOLY BUCKETS couldn’t there be an easier way to refine my heart?]. I think I thought I was above all this. I’m not very insecure. I wasn’t looking for a man to fulfill me or reassure me of my worth, which is how most women end up in the this mess, right? And yet here I am, somehow still fooled. I almost walked into a disaster of a marriage. I almost put my dreams and calling in jeopardy to love an unhealthy man. It scares me to see how close I came to stumbling over the edge of the line from which I would’ve chosen not to return [divorce is not something I consider okay unless in extreme situations; I would’ve made a valiant run of it]. I look in the mirror and have to face up to raw truth that I am not as wise and discerning as I had thought. I am just as capable of being blind and misguided and unable to see God’s best as the next person over. I didn’t marry the first man I dated. The first man I kissed. I can now join the ranks of those who have an EX, something I never understood before. So to all those who have reached that tier ahead of me I say, I am not above you. Maybe it’s you who are above me, who already know true love isn’t perfect. No matter how religious you try to make it the Bible never promises fairytales. Here’s the truth: we fail. I FAIL. I was imperfect in finding love. And the realization is smacking me in the gut.

Day 11

What does it mean to follow the voice of the Lord into something—to learn to trust and be vulnerable as I never was before, to open my heart to love—only to hear that same voice suddenly thunder so clearly to get out?

I’m not sure yet. All I know is that twelve days ago I was engaged and now I’m not. Now I’m caught in a numbing daze, grasping for small moments of normalcy, setting goals of making it through each day, falling into bed exhausted and hoping I can sleep. It was my choice—to unengaged myself—and I’m not sure which would be harder, to be on the receiving end of a severing decision over which I had no control or to willingly amputate a part of myself because I knew it was the healthier decision long-term but hurts the dickens in the meantime.

I’m full of questions, ones that make me alternate between not wanting to trust myself and not wanting to trust God. And I’ve entered a wilderness of grief, one I’m tentative to acknowledge, like I’m walking through a desert but in denial of the fact that I’m thirsty. My heart has shut down to protect itself and the well of tears I know must be buried layers down merely bubble up to brush the surface at unexpected moments. Sometimes the word grief seems so serious and somber, something that my pain does not deserve. Nobody died. There are worse fates than having to give back a ring. And yet for my brain this equals trauma. Those close to me assure me it is right to grieve. It like death—death of a relationship, a future, a dream. I had to learn to surrender to self as I walked into this relationship, and now I have to learn a new kind of surrender as I walk away and let go.

So here I am single again. Some moments I feel relieved and more like myself. I blink looking at the past eight months and wonder was it all a dream? But so many other moments I know that can’t be true and the weight of it settles within me, making it hard to get out of bed in the morning, find clean clothes that match, be motivated to eat, or muster up words in prayer. My prayers are more like aches and muttered tears, inward pleas for the Lord to come be near while simultaneously keeping Him at length for fear of what He might say.

I find I need to rediscover what it means to be myself, to do things I enjoy. That means I need to write. Some days (maybe more than not) it’s going to be hard and I’ll want to curl up in bed and put it off, but I know it will be good. I’m not ready to tackle the reshaping of a novel, but I can put words down to help me process. They might be raw and uncensored, but they’ll be real and honest. I pray they’ll help me navigate through this wilderness to look back and see God’s severe mercy upon my life.