open up wide, swallow down deep; no spoonful of sugar can make this sweet.

i didn’t want to write tonite. no spoonful of sugar could make this sweet.

my heart is raw. vulnerable and still reeling from the pain. i’ve been in a fight with myself whether it was worth the risk in writing or if i wanted to write and add to the pile of posts that no one may ever see.

nobody cares. and no one wants to hear about your sob story. lies i can so easily believe depending on the day or the moment. no one wants to hear anymore about this. write something that people would actually enjoy reading.

but what those lies feed is a deep insecurity that i am not okay. or enough. or that there is something wrong with me. (not okay or something wrong emotionally and in terms of my identity, not health-wise because obviously we all know something is wrong and i am not okay in terms of my health.) something that everyone else can see. shame creeps in like a sinister villain prancing around its prey just waiting for the perfect time to pounce. lying to me that i am inadequate. that i am forgotten. that no one cares. that people are beginning to wonder what is really going on here. that i am a failure. the pile of unanswered emails, phone calls, and ever growing items on the to-do list mock me each day as i have to face the reality that i am at 10% of my normal capacity, physically and emotionally. feeling handicapped now going through life. that wanting to do something and doing it are no longer synonymous. that many times i’m only able to do a fraction of what i’d like to do in a day. trying to give myself grace that i am in a different season. but feeling behind, and like a failure. yet daring to trust the One who sees and knows all and doesn’t measure me by the same harsh standards i impose on myself.

i was planning on writing a different post. one that no longer is the current beat of my heart. one that i had been planning on writing the last couple of days and now finally had the time, energy and a computer to write. frustration welled within the last hour as i’ve been debating. do i still write it? or do i write from the rawness of the wounds i’m currently experiencing or not write at all.

yet something keeps pulling me closer. asking me to share my wounded heart. asking me to take the chance yet again to be misunderstood. unknown. or “too messy.”

yet something within doesn’t care anymore. moment to moment i’m reminded i can’t expect people to understand. no one will ever fully know what this journey has been. for it has been a journey not one of the feet, but of the heart, as Tozer says, who but God can follow him there?

undone.

completely. my heart wrung dry to the very last drop. my soul not knowing how many more winds it can endure.

it came upon so suddenly. abruptly disturbing the peace the last hour and a half had been.
things were fine. until.

so wrong it doesn’t seem right. possible. hardly explainable or fair.

we both felt tricked. ambushed. grieving together once again that with which we had believed we had come to terms with.

coming off one of the most difficult weeks in a long time, i finally found peace and rest, felt alive again for the first time in i don’t know how long. felt seen, known and heard from the God I’ve been crying out to, as He blessed with gifts beyond compare Thursday and Friday of this week.

To laugh again. To feel at home again at the start of Woodcrest’s women’s ministry Thursday morning. To feel like myself again. For times with women at lunch, or hanging out with the Ingalls, or running errands, having one of the girls cook me dinner and have me over, having another one of the girl’s come over for a late night rendezvous while Ben was at work. Days where I felt a part of life again. Life not without these new challenges and limitations now imposed on me, but life with them, fighting through the pain and the restraints, to taste and see, experience life. Experience His grace.

Today was another pretty good day. Leading up to church was hard, but once we got there, things were fine. During the message a million and ten thoughts i’ve been struggling to put into words kept flowing, as i got it all out. much like during the service Thursday morning at Woodcrest. Something about being in those environments helped me put together all the pieces.

after continuing to process and work through the words coming from deep within, wrestling to formulate sentences about the experiences in the last few months, afterwards i was overwhelmed with emotion.

overwhelmed with the reality of it all. still shocked and in disbelief yet while my heart at the same time felt relieved, that there were now words and sentences giving voice to it all.

finally feeling free, the message ended and soon the first worship song began. revelation song. i could feel the tears rising, but brought myself to stand up. just a few words in, the tears started falling and i crumbled back into my seat.

so much has happened since then. just the first few melodies brang back memories of our wedding. it was the first song the band played and sang.

so much has happened. it doesn’t even seem real. the last three months have been such a far cry from that weekend and that day. three months that have broken and stripped us both of all that was once familiar, known or somewhat predictable. three months falling after the first three month period dealing with this sickness, where from the beginning, the illusion of control that I once entertained and was fooled by, couldn’t be more laughable.

as humans, we long for control, understanding, a plan, predictability, the familiar, yet in life, as Dan Allender says, a truth that all of us, at one time or another are faced with and most confront, the only thing we can predict with life is unpredictability.

it’s a hard pill to swallow.

as one of my favorite songs says, no spoonful of sugar can make it sweet.

we find we’ve come undone. yet again. surprised by the swell of emotions and the reality of it all. i feel apart there in my seat and then just had to leave. i needed to cry and be alone with Him. get away from it all. fall apart in his arms as the questions flowed along with my tears.

i came back in a few minutes. lighter. seen. known. received once again in the embrace of my Father. the one who has held every tear I’ve cried.

ben told me we could leave whenever we wanted to, not stay after and talk for long if need be. I was truly feeling better, my heart again at peace, and wanted to stay for a bit. everything was going fine. until.

in just the last few minutes we were there. ambushed. hijacked. robbed of the security the last hour and a half had graciously afforded us. with simple questions. interactions and a situation,
it felt once again that the bucket of cold water had just hit us, so fast we couldn’t even see it coming or know what had all happened till we finally started to see, reeling from the harshness of reality. kicking our faces to the pavement once again.

we sat there in silence unbelieved by it all.

then as we started processing, ben shared the most brilliant analogy and illustration that so captured what had just happened and what we’ve been experiencing.

it’s like how the beginning of [Mark Driscoll’s] Death By Love, where he talks about the cross and the gospel being like a multi-faceted jewel, but that many times we can just sum it up to two, maybe three facets.

but it’s so much more brilliant and beautiful and complex than that, much like the many faces of a jewel or a diamond, yet in its complexity lies its confusion.

once you think you have seen all there is to see, another facet shines through.

the same with this, just when we feel we have a handle on things, or come to know what to expect and thus prepare accordingly for the physical realities, or emotional realities or even spiritual of our experiences dealing with this sickness, we find yet another facet. yet another complexity that has not been brought to light. another side of this that sends us on our backs reeling. reeling from the abrupt nature of the rug of supposed security ripped out from beneath us again. coughing and trying to catch our breath after getting punched in the stomach as we choke on the dust billowing around us as our foe takes off running. departing as swift as it came on.

in the ashes, we’re reminded how many faces this has. the heaviness of grief, one that at times can feel lighter, seems to always bring its full weight back sharply reminding us, in those moments of relief, that grief has set in. the heaviness of the season an undercurrent through most of our days. reminding us how fragile and how broken we are, yet also how much more united, and a team and in love we are with each other, and the God who has drawn us into deeper mystery and intimacy in our relationship and with our Father.

i’m painfully reminded again, as i wrestled with to write this post or not, that to be alive is to be broken. and to be broken is to stand in need of grace. i have nothing to be ashamed of. broken, alive, human, trusting, doubting, hoping, struggling, overcoming, grieving, rejoicing, singing, crying, we are never more alive to life and to God than when life hurts. it is then we are thrown into the throes of the reality of who He really is. a God who meets me in my darkness and my pain. who weeps when i weep, who laughs when i laugh.

one who isn’t afraid to call me by name and claim me as His, Abba’s child, the one in whom he is well pleased, the one in whom he delights. in my moments of weakness and strength, his love remains.

looking back at the storms of this week, i am still in disbelief at what i see. each day brought blow after blow. every day brought change, new challenges, more facets and faces being ground into this jewel. as i cried out to you and simply asked why, and where are you?

yet in my questioning, and anguish and grief, in my anger and doubting suspicions, you welcomed me. embraced. i found myself received in your presence. heard, understood, loved. as you sat there are agreed with me. that yes this is not fair. that yes this sucks. that yes things changed and you were handed a new life without choosing. that yes, it is okay to grieve, it is okay to be weak, it is okay to cry, it is okay to be vulnerable.

each time i found you waiting. loving me tenderly and simply giving me the gift of your presence, not knowing how it would all work out but going reassured that you are with me. that you are and will take care of us. that you are and will be faithful. that you will and are carrying us. that you are and will be our strength. that you are and will be our help, grant us wisdom, lead us and sustain us.

that you are not the god of the presumption of safety, a plan carefully mapped out on a piece of paper, or one who promises that life will be filled with the beauty of the mountaintops and the lushness of the greenest of gardens. but one who takes us far beyond the edges of our comfort, leads us into a land that is unknown, resembling anything but familiar. a God who draws us deeper into deserts and valleys, the rugged terrain uncharted and desolate, seeming to withhold answers or the clarity we crave, save from the promise that you will be with us as we pass through those places. you will never leave nor forsake us.

it is in the barrenness and despair of the desert, as we stretch as far as the eye can see and find no relief or end in sight, that we encounter a God like we’ve never known. we come undone. empty handed but alive in your hands. not sure of the next step or the way through the darkness, but fully relying, loving, trusting you. as we take your hand and heed your call, one of tenderness and compassion, as the tears in your eyes speak volumes of the depth of your compassion towards us, as you simply say, “Come.”

The Father’s invitation to me earlier today and again tonight, words that penetrated my soul deep within, as i meditated and listed out all the burdens piling on top of one another, and asked for help on how to give them completely to him. all i need, he told me, is to come. to come, draw near. taste and see that yes, you are good.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened,
and I will give you rest.

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me,
for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

:: Matthew 11:28-29

Simply, come. Come undone. Come to me, I love you, I see you, I am here for you, I am fighting for you, I long to give you rest.