Sometimes I get really tired. I get frustrated. I sometimes feel muffled, stifled, and discouraged.
I say one thing, meaning it from the bottom of my heart in the best way possible, and it offends. I lose my appetite to speak again. I lose my appetite to even try to explain myself, because it’s like trying to speak another language. I don’t have that kind of gift, and I don’t wish for it. I refuse to go to great lengths to display my pointless disapproving opinion of others’ equally pointless disapproving opinions. I stop caring. I lose my appetite.
The thought of trying to change the world, to change the system, seems ludicrous when the loudest voices are the most offensive. The thought of vulnerable people feeling welcomed and loved, when there are so many stigmas, so many hoops to jump through? Are you kidding? Not in 2015. Not yet. The thought of healing actually taking place? It would take a revival of bleeding knees, faces on the ground in repentance for their stiff arms, narrowed eyes, and their culture of spiritual bullying and shaming.
It’s impossible with man. Cue in King Jesus to deal with this nonsense.
I get tired of staying willing, to keep stepping into the mess. And just to sit with them, not because I have to but because I’ve been there and I wished for a true friend then. Making new friends. Following up with old ones who never call me. Catching tears with my shirt, with my hands, with my hair. Watching swollen faces blow their noses loudly, trying to release a pressure from the heart, to express a grief nearly unbearable. And this I volunteer to do, on top of my job. And sometimes during my job, because coworkers pull me aside and cry to me about their broken hearts, too. It follows me everywhere, this thing I do. But it gets tiring.
Sometimes I wish I could just get home from work and be able to go to sleep. Straight to sleep. No call appointments, no emails, no texts, no messages, no voicemails, no blogs to edit, no posts to schedule, no ministry resting on me whatsoever. And the odd thing? I can’t even imagine life like that. But on the worst nights? I wish for it. I wish for a greener grass that doesn’t exist, me not following a big purpose, me not caring anymore. I wish for the very thing I hate, the very thing the world has too much of: apathy.
On nights like this, I put it all down. I lay it all down. Warm, fat tears make their grand leaps down, wasting themselves to streak my cheekbones. He sings me a new song, a low hum of peace. It shatters my anger when He sounds so calm. It wears down my frustration, His confidence sovereign. The King acknowledges my exhausted sobs, the ones of surrender. Then He softly calls me out…
You’ve been holding out on me, taking all upon yourself, going in your own strength, speaking from your own vocabulary. I increased the resistance and you took it on yourself. Don’t do that. Get back on track. It’s time for another big push. I’m stretching you again, big time. You know what is coming, don’t you? I need you big and strong. I need you tough and mighty. I need you loud and bold. I need you brave and focused. Shepherd the ones I’m giving you. Their hearts are soft. They’re ready to grow. Take them to lie down by my still waters, and show them my greenest of pastures.
And that… that’s what it’s like when He keeps me. That’s why I’m still here, still writing, still hoping and going. It’s not my power of will, nor my great endurance, no. It’s Him. He takes me when I’m falling apart, and He keeps me.