Wandering

I'm at one of those places in life where each step seems to affirm that I live in a constant wandering.  By that I mean to say I never feel sure where my next step will take me.

At times, this wandering produces excitement and curiosity, with the words of Bilbo Baggins reminding me that 'if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off.' At other times, rather than being 'swept' off my feet in some grand adventure, I feel like I'm lost at sea, pummeled by incessant waves, barely able to see over one before the next comes crashing down.

My emotion resonates with this imagery of being at sea; high waves with endless sight of water and little to no sure sign of what's coming next.  Some while back I began thinking through my life as a small ship, myself the first-mate while Abba is Captain.  This imagery led me to consider my response to feeling lost at sea, fearful of storms and their capsizing waves, which usually falls into one of several categories.

At the first sign of trouble I may endeavor to rip the wheel from my Captains' hand, assured in myself that I know a better way to stay the storm.

Or, when feeling lost and confused, I see myself as fumbling with a telescope and map, desperately searching for what lies ahead, determined to foresee the next part of this adventure before it comes to be.

When dread or despair of the raging storm overwhelms me I may even try to jump ship, believing the boat and its Captain to be unsafe and more dangerous than what lurks in the waves.

If fear begins to take hold of me I may find myself seeking shelter below deck, believing if I hide the storm will pass me by unscathed.

The option I seek out far less than the others is to patiently trust my Captain.  It seems absurd to doubt Him.  He's led so many on this Way before that I'm astounded by my own unbelief and cowering heart.  To live on deck in the midst of the storm, at work with the things at hand, seems to be the way of faith.  Faith which is not simply wishful thinking that somehow this storm will pass, but which is grounded in the fact that if this ship sinks, runs ashore, or breaks asunder; my Captain will have me, He won't let me perish.

This trusting faith escapes me.  I long to live my wandering life with the affirmative shout of O' Captain, My Captain!  Yet I so often find myself cursing the Captain for how long the journey takes, murmuring about how great the waves are, or complaining about the intensity of the storm.

"Jesus had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd." Matthew 9:36

Fixing Hurts Doesn't Heal

This week has been one of slowly walking in the desert place, where my emotionally parched and dry tongue longs for something refreshing.   In this place it often seems that the only sustenance I receive are the dry bread of loneliness and bitter herbs of fear.

In my own self I constantly have to fight the overwhelming scream to 'fix it!'.  Unfortunately for most of us, 'fixing' an emotional wound typically involves another unhealthy venture which brings about further isolation or anxiety; be it distraction through overworking, numbing through drugs or alcohol , soothing through pornography or gossip, or running away by living in silence.  Rather than healing an open wound, our efforts to 'fix' our pain only builds up a thick callous, which prevents the wound from ever being fully healed.

At one point this week I found myself enraged attempting to get rid of all my pent up loneliness, fear and anxiety (i.e. 'fix it!').  Several years ago this urge would have found my hand contacting a doorpost.  This time, however, there was a buffer between my urge to react and the time of my reaction.  Rather than reacting in anger, I consciously chose to sit in the deep hurt and loneliness which was attempting to take on the form of punching a wall.  This buffer time between stimulus and reaction, in which I am able to process my emotion and make a wise decision, caught me off guard.  I found myself sitting in my truck, feeling lonely and rejected, but smiling in my choice to sit with my hurt rather than react with anger.

The Man of Sorrows taught us this way in his life, which is seen in the opposite of the actions he chose.  Consider his time in the garden.   Luke tells us he kneels to pray that the cup of wrath might be passed from him, which plunges him into a prayer of anguish.  We see the magnitude of his emotion as we're told of the physiological response he has to this incredible stress when his capillaries burst and bleed with stress.  Jesus arises in the midst of this deep emotional pain to find his closest friends asleep rather than in prayer as he requested from them.  In this instance the Son of Man shows us a way of life in which one sits in their emotional pain, instead of reacting in various ways to escape it.  Rather than reacting in anger or shame to the further hurt, rejection, and loneliness he receives from his disconnected and sleeping friends, he beckons them to awake and bids for them to join him in further prayer.  He allows himself to receive and sit in these new emotional wounds, and in knowing his pain he has the ability to specifically ask for what he needs from others.

This road wherein we feel our hurts and ask from others those things which we want and need is a foreign way of life for me.  I find that as I allow myself and others into this state of my emotional woundedness, there often develops a deeper intimacy and knowing.  In all honesty, there also exists in this vulnerable state the possibility of further hurt and rejection, which is probably why we spend so much effort running away from it.

In the many years I have spent attempting to escape feeling wounded I have denied myself and others the privilege of intimate relating, as well as an opportunity for true healing.