I hold with all I have

I'm going to start writing again.
Mostly because it helps me process the world around me and at some point in the last year I stopped writing, and processing, the way I know how. And I want to find my way back.

Some mornings I wake up and I'm scared. Scared that every morning for the next forty years I'll be greeted with the same raw pain and hopelessness. Other mornings I wake up without a thought of fear, excited about a hot cup of coffee and the ordinary adventure of the day. I have no idea which morning tomorrow will be and the thing is...my mornings were the same when my body was strong. The trouble comes when I let my feelings inform my thoughts, and seep into my soul.

I spend a lot of hours in doctors' offices. On that weird little bed with the crackly paper sheet. Last week there were butterflies painted on the ceiling tiles. I've made countless hand turkeys out of rubber gloves, thanks to my Mom's silly sense of humor. One good thing about the doctor's office is that it never fails to bring me face-to-face with everything I've been avoiding. It is in those quiet moments after the nurse leaves and before the doctor comes that I realize what I truly believe. And in those still moments, it is hard to not feel worn down and small.

When I got sick a lot of my dreams turned to dust, and no matter what I tried I couldn't get them to materialize again. I used to think that healthy people had it better off because they had the strength and energy to believe. They could look at their life and see the beauty and attribute it straight to God's love. It's a pretty common thought. There was always that moment after something shattered that a healthy friend would look me in the eyes and say,  "Anna, it's okay. He is making your faith stronger. It is further proof that the Lord has big plans for you." But I wanted to take their words and slam them against the wall,  hoping they'd fall to the floor into a thousand pieces. I didn't want a God like that. A God that puts me through hell for the sake of my story. Where is the hope in that? I think somewhere along the way we've come to believe that the harder our lives are, the more He is planning. But then what do we do when we are healthy? Does that mean he is farther from us? We think we are making it simple, but really we are complicating it.

As I look back, I do think there is some truth in those words, deep down, somewhere. But my soul still screams that it isn't a formula. And until I give up making His love and His presence into a formula, I'll never really know Him.

It isn't that in the hard times God is closer. It is that He is close. Always.

I'm starting to fall deeply in love with the parts of our God that are a mystery. They used to scare the hell out of me. Now they help me feel human, and they help me believe He is God and He is bigger.

No matter if my body is strong or weak, my soul doesn't have to be tied to it. My soul doesn't have to feed off of my health, or my view of the world, or that feeling in the morning of hopelessness or belief. My soul feeds off of Him. And He is always there. This is how some of the weakest, most hopeless moments - sitting alone in a hospital bed staring up a oddly painted ceiling tiles, or stranded in a parking lot until the blinding nerve pain in my leg subsides and I can drive home - can still be hopeful and beautiful times for the soul.

I hear God best at night right after I turn off the lights in my room, before I fall asleep. When I'm left looking at the ceiling and all the fears, doubts and joys of my life start to fall into columns and sort themselves out - as if they're written in the night.

Lately I've found him saying that He is here. And that I can rest, because He's not going anywhere. And that I don't have to figure Him out because I can't anyways.

The most obvious things about God are also the most surprising, and the most healing.