It has been a long time since I’ve blogged. I make no apologies. My last blogs were senseless wanderings and wonderings about searching for God in the midst of sin, discovering myself, and a despairing sense of uncertainty about everything–made tangible by a lack of employment. I spoke about my fruitless desire to write something worth reading.
Here’s my update:
I am no less sure of how to love God in the midst of sin, and I am no less sinful. My sin is real. Still. So real that I sometimes choke on it. But, it is what it is. I’m giving it to God. Which, I have learned, is not an act for me… but a process. I have years to walk in this. I’ll need to learn to trust again (have I ever trusted?). I’ll need to learn gentleness in handling a person’s heart (including my own). I’ll need to learn to accept lifelong imperfection. I’ll need to learn to love, and in doing so, perhaps to be loved. And, I’ll need to learn to both speak, and hear, the word “no.” All of these lessons must be applied to myself, those around me, and God. I don’t need to know how to do all of them all at once. I just need to start somewhere, and have faith that God will give me what I need, when I need it.
I still have not “discovered” myself, though I’m becoming more comfortable with who I am (and chuckling that I ever thought a 25 year old could discover the meaning, purpose, or direction of her entire life). In any case, I don’t want to know myself. That feels like awakening on Christmas morning knowing every secret gift meant to be hidden beneath beautiful paper. I want the delight, surprise, pain, and joy of discovering as I go along.
I’m still uncertain. Okay? We are all. I’m surrounded by people who are equally confused and frustrated by a lack of knowing. I’ve decided that I’d rather be uncertain than alone in my station. Employment? I have it. I sometimes hate it, sometimes love it. I lose my breath in fear that I won’t be able to get it all done. I rejoice with small accomplishments. I try not to forget the hunger for purpose I felt when I was searching for this job. I try to remember my gratefulness when I was finally hired. Some days I do better than others.
And writing? I have journals in my desk, my car, my briefcase, and underneath my bed filled with half-expressed thoughts on love, anger, desire, God, sin, marriage, family, and need. I don’t date the entries. If I ever revisit my written past, I might not be able to tell what any of it means. And even if I do, my words may never be more than scribbled feelings in tattered books. But I stopped trying to write to be heard, and started writing just to speak.
It’s been a long year. I’m tired. I’m still carrying old hurts that seem to haunt me at every turn. I cry less, and hug my sweet niece less. My nights are restless as I wrestle with sleep; my body is starved for rest. And yet? I’m not unhappy. It might be that accepting my ignorance was the key; it might be that happiness is easiest found when you stop looking for it. I don’t know. I struggle to care. Right now, it’s enough to just be.