Clarity

I don't have a whole lot of that right now, but I was writing an email to a very dear person in my life about how I feel emotionally and existentially on the brink (if one can, indeed, be existentially on the brink), and concluded, "Maybe this is what happens when someone who is the center of her universe meets the Center of the Universe."

Whoop, there it is! That's it. Of course things hurt like hell right now--C.S. Lewis writes, in the beginning of Screwtape Letters, "We must picture Hell as a state where everyone is perpetually concerned about his own dignity and self-advancement. . ."--by that definition, I'm in hell. And getting out of hell is an awful process.

I'm finally starting to get what it means to be painfully purified. It means, in my case at least, being flung from my own personal pedestal. And I wanna go back. Being the shiznit of my own world is not only comfortable, it keeps me feeling really good about myself. God. . .yeah, God doesn't make me feel good about myself, at least not initially. God makes part of me cringe in horror, while the other part says, "Hey, You should probably pay attention to me, too! I'm kind of a big deal!" Part of me grovels while another part, a very real part, stands up and makes the absurd demands an ant makes to lion. "Save me, protect me, and then lavish upon me everything I ever wanted! In short, be my personal genie! Be the center of MY universe, just as I am! Then I'll love You. I've even give You lip service and try really hard to make You happy."

Too bad the lion doesn't need me to be happy. Too bad I can't see that the only reason the lion takes any notice of me at all is because of His character, not my virtue.

Of course it's gonna hurt. My definition of happiness centers around me. Until I can change that definition, I will never achieve true happiness. And changing that definition means being stripped of all the coping skills I've ever developed, along with a good dose of whatever keeps me feeling good about myself. . .and it requires a whole lot of trust that, when it's all said and done and I've got nothing left, He'll be willing to heal and restore the wreckage.

Hearts and cling film

My heart works like cling film--you know, the craptastic stuff that becomes utterly useless once you pull it off the roll, because it sticks all over everything you had no intention of it touching, and balls up on itself once you get it to the dish you want to cover?

Yup, that's my stupid little heart. It clings to the things God has given a clear "no" to, and overlooks the things He wants me to focus on. It gets so wrapped up in my pain it forgets the blessings it's been given. It becomes absolutely fixated on areas that are harmful or at least not helpful, thus negating its purpose.

It's been a rough few weeks, as I've lost track of where God fits into this never-ending picture of grad school ahead of me, and have begun focusing on the here and now. The here and now isn't bad. It's just lonely and wounded sometimes.

I'm learning that healing and woundedness are not as black and white as I once believed. I used to think that wounding encompassed life so heavily that when a person became wounded, s/he had no choice but to break from life, heal, and then move on. Wounding does permeate life, but it's much more subtle. I, for example, am a highly functioning individual, and truth be told, I'm genuinely happy most of the time. But wounds I've carried for a long time are beginning to become de-scabbed, and I'm in that contradictory stage of being completely fine, yet totally wounded at the same time. Highs and lows meshed together to make. . .not a comfortable medium, but a painful joy. Joy is definitely the melody, but ache surely does play a persistent harmony.

I'm not sure if any of these far flung analogies make sense, even in my head. I suppose at the end of the day, I'm just trying to get across the concept that I am frequently stupid and run away from the ache that God filters down to me, in favor of the more brutal ache this world offers when I'm on my own. It seems easier, initially, because then I don't have to deal with the hurt of what feels like betrayal, and the "Why, God? Why weren't You there's?" that inevitably arise when I feel striken.