the unseen and the seem
This Starbucks is murmuring, my iced coffee is dripping, Norah Jones is crooning, and the world outside is swelling in anticipation for a storm they say will pass through. Jon took a day trip today so I've had a much-needed introvert day, complete with hiding from the septic pump people in desperate attempts to avoid all human interaction for the entire day.
So the world is swelling and my soul is groaning because this world is so wearing, I'm seeing, for all of us. And often my personal pain hinders from me from seeing this, but we are all groaning, waiting, limping down our respective roads that are often riddled with pain and unmet desires. We all whisper those silent questions when night falls and we are forced to face our swollen hearts pregnant with longing, the when? the why? the how?
I feel it too, friends. And I know you're here. I know your pain, though different than mine, is just as valid. It is deep. It is too complex for trite encouragement, too deep to describe, and oh, just too much. I see parents with wayward children, frozen by worry and haunted by regret. I see infertile couples with only disappointment growing in their bellies. Good, kind, wonderful single people who just sometimes wonder when (if?) it will work out this time. The wife who prays for her husband's wandering heart, the pastor who hasn't seen growth, the cancer with no remission, the job offer that never comes.
Is there anyone who isn't limping and whimpering and wanting and panting for just a deep breath of relief, of rest?
I feel it most at night, when the bustle of the day calms and there is just my swollen, throbbing heart, stretched by the growing questions to which I don't know when the answers will come. And yes, it feels like that one time before when things were hard but He still came through with such victory and glory. But what if not this time?
What if not this time? my soul stretches thin with this question, stretches wrinkles straight between my eyebrows.
Because it does seems like this is different. Seems like this time it's hopeless. It must be; breakdowns are often while breakthroughs are only in dreams. And we limp and trip and strain and stumble on while it seems like others stride on past and this road seems so long and is the end even worth it? our hearts ask in agony. The cheeky Pinterest quotes break down quickly on this type of terrain. Every selfish motivation must crumble or it cripples us because we are not on this impossible road for ourselves.
Because our selves are weary, heartbroken, failing and we are quite ready to quit. Should we still hold onto the things we once sang with confidence, though what was once a strong rope now seems to be a thin thread? Amidst turmoil and beneath the questions we wonder, perhaps, He is worth this still?
That perhaps maybe it's true what His Word says about how things seem are never what they really are. That maybe, the way things seem are always masking the unseen things, warping silences to seem like abandonment, making the heavy rains feel like judgment, the closed doors as mere finger smashers. And maybe how the Unseen cut through hopeless scenery of how things seemed all throughout His Book, maybe He'll do it again. Maybe He already is?
Four hundred hears of silence paved the coming of our glorious King, could my silence likewise be perhaps a hushed anticipation of the Second Act of His continued glory? Could these heavy rains be an outpouring of love, or perhaps His tears both at my pain and the beauty that will unfold? Could this unseen force that closed doors so harshly be similar to a swift redirection of a loving parent from a hot stove?
It could be; I am not certain. None of us can be, really. The unseen things are blurry, cloudy, far away and dreamlike while The Way Things Seem rage on in horror and hopelessness and painfully perfect clarity.
The Unseen He says He's working is fuzzy and uncertain and holding onto it feels unsafe. But I have nothing to lose by clinging to this thread of hope (for this treacherous path will remain in front of me: the cancer still rages, the longing still throbs, the child still wanders), and absolutely everything to gain.
My heart still stretches and so does this path; all I have left is this hope in an unseen glory that feels like folly but sings like glory.
So the world is swelling and my soul is groaning because this world is so wearing, I'm seeing, for all of us. And often my personal pain hinders from me from seeing this, but we are all groaning, waiting, limping down our respective roads that are often riddled with pain and unmet desires. We all whisper those silent questions when night falls and we are forced to face our swollen hearts pregnant with longing, the when? the why? the how?
I feel it too, friends. And I know you're here. I know your pain, though different than mine, is just as valid. It is deep. It is too complex for trite encouragement, too deep to describe, and oh, just too much. I see parents with wayward children, frozen by worry and haunted by regret. I see infertile couples with only disappointment growing in their bellies. Good, kind, wonderful single people who just sometimes wonder when (if?) it will work out this time. The wife who prays for her husband's wandering heart, the pastor who hasn't seen growth, the cancer with no remission, the job offer that never comes.
Is there anyone who isn't limping and whimpering and wanting and panting for just a deep breath of relief, of rest?
I feel it most at night, when the bustle of the day calms and there is just my swollen, throbbing heart, stretched by the growing questions to which I don't know when the answers will come. And yes, it feels like that one time before when things were hard but He still came through with such victory and glory. But what if not this time?
What if not this time? my soul stretches thin with this question, stretches wrinkles straight between my eyebrows.
Because it does seems like this is different. Seems like this time it's hopeless. It must be; breakdowns are often while breakthroughs are only in dreams. And we limp and trip and strain and stumble on while it seems like others stride on past and this road seems so long and is the end even worth it? our hearts ask in agony. The cheeky Pinterest quotes break down quickly on this type of terrain. Every selfish motivation must crumble or it cripples us because we are not on this impossible road for ourselves.
Because our selves are weary, heartbroken, failing and we are quite ready to quit. Should we still hold onto the things we once sang with confidence, though what was once a strong rope now seems to be a thin thread? Amidst turmoil and beneath the questions we wonder, perhaps, He is worth this still?
That perhaps maybe it's true what His Word says about how things seem are never what they really are. That maybe, the way things seem are always masking the unseen things, warping silences to seem like abandonment, making the heavy rains feel like judgment, the closed doors as mere finger smashers. And maybe how the Unseen cut through hopeless scenery of how things seemed all throughout His Book, maybe He'll do it again. Maybe He already is?
Four hundred hears of silence paved the coming of our glorious King, could my silence likewise be perhaps a hushed anticipation of the Second Act of His continued glory? Could these heavy rains be an outpouring of love, or perhaps His tears both at my pain and the beauty that will unfold? Could this unseen force that closed doors so harshly be similar to a swift redirection of a loving parent from a hot stove?
It could be; I am not certain. None of us can be, really. The unseen things are blurry, cloudy, far away and dreamlike while The Way Things Seem rage on in horror and hopelessness and painfully perfect clarity.
The Unseen He says He's working is fuzzy and uncertain and holding onto it feels unsafe. But I have nothing to lose by clinging to this thread of hope (for this treacherous path will remain in front of me: the cancer still rages, the longing still throbs, the child still wanders), and absolutely everything to gain.
My heart still stretches and so does this path; all I have left is this hope in an unseen glory that feels like folly but sings like glory.
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