When I'm Not Sure How To Breathe

I’m not sure how to breathe.

There must have been some kind of mistake—

My chest was never made to be torn at like this. So many things are broken, and I don’t know how to fix them. I do not know how to fix them. My insides tie themselves in knots and knots, my chest is too tight, I am sick with it all sitting inside of me. My frail bones are trembling under the weight of this world—of shootings and explosions, us versus them, of groups being reduced to stereotypes, of black bodies lying in the streets, of voices silenced, of the tear filled and far away eyes of girls who have been violated, of the way the shoulders of the men who get away with it square up as they walk away, of the brown and dust-caked hands of refugees reaching out with stretched fingertips, only to be shoved away, of the eyes an orphan that are beginning to harden with hope lost, of betrayal, of trust broken, of cruelty, of broken relationships that evade reconciliation. Of silence when their should be outcry, of silence when their should be shouts of joy. Of the way I stumble and stumble and stumble, of the way I walk so wrong. I can’t stop staring and the mirror that’s held up in front of my face, that shows me what I dread with my whole being: I am reflected in all of it. The knowledge that I am the wounded but also the one who wounds, that I am helpless, that I am the problem rushes through my veins like thick mercury. My frail bones are trembling. They are about to break.

There’s been a mistake.

And I’m not sure how to breathe.

I cannot hold platitudes right now. Theology slips through my fingers. I could open my mouth to sing praise because you are sovereign, but I have no breath to sing. I could open my mouth to wail, because You are near to the brokenhearted, but no sound will pass my lips. I can only sit in twisting silence, softly rocking back and forth, doing my best to draw air in as evenly as I’m pushing it out, which is not evenly at all. I’m not sure how to breathe.

I close my eyes.

I bow my head.

I realize that the space around me isn’t empty: it’s moving, it’s filled with life. I feel it gather and gently wash over me. You are here. I don’t think it makes sense, but I see that You are here now. I don’t think I can pray right now.  I can’t glorify you with my words right now. I can’t form a lament to you with my lips, begging you to hear me. I can’t even yell at you right now, even as I realize you’re here.

You don’t speak, either. Your voice does not arrive booming with rage or disdain at the idiocy of your children, even as you see my blood stained hands. You don’t tell me that Your ways are higher than my ways. You don’t say that everything happens for a reason, remind me that the world is broken, that one day things will be better, so I should to keep my chin up… you don’t speak at all.

I feel You coming closer still. You are not floating in the highest of heights, you are coming to me, looking at me so intently that I can feel the concern in your gaze. I see You. I see you sitting down next to me, covered in dirt, lowering yourself into the dust. You don’t stop looking at me. I look over and my eyes meet Your, and I see that they are filled with tears. I see that You’re crying, even as I can’t, but you aren’t giving me words. All I see is tenderness. All I see is  Your own broken heart. All I see is Grace. You haven’t brought me answers or Proverbs, but You were present even before I noticed. But You are here.  

You are here, You are here, You are here. We don’t speak, but You sit with me. Another day, we might talk about “why”s.. We might talk about theology another day, about humanity, about how exactly this mess gets redeemed like You’ve said it will. Because You have said it will. You have said it’s already begun.

Love came like madness,

Poured out in blood-washed romance.

It makes no sense, but this is Grace

And I know that You are with me in this place

Here, now.

All I know is I know that You are here, now

Still my heart, let Your voice be all I hear now

Spirit breathe like the wind

Come have Your way

I have no bow to wrap this up, tidy and clear. I am a mess right now. In so many corners, this world is a mess right now. I don’t understand. I can’t understand. My heart is broken still. But you sit with me, turning towards and turning towards. You run to me, and you stay. Finally, a sentence materializes in my mind, the words of another: “Will love songs one day no longer be laments?”

“Yes,” You promise me.

“Yes.”

And I draw a breath in deeply, and exhale soft and slow.

I breathe. 

(quote by Nicholas Wolterstorff)

For When You Forget (A Letter For My Little One)

We talked last night, as we do most nights--my little friend and I.

She is far away, and that we talk at all is a small sort of miracle. Not only because of the insanity of technology that allows us to exchange words in real time when there are many thousands of miles between us, but because of all the improbabilities that had to gather just so to form a path for the two of us to meet on. If I hadn't been sitting outside that building to see an old aquaintance walk by, hadn't sent that one seemingly random text message to connect with a girl I'd vaugely known many years before, if I hadn't been in that garage that one night and become digital friends with that boy who I didn't speak to for a year, if I hadn't spoken that one sentence that caught his eye, if one of a hundred seemingly arbitrary clicks and "hellos" had not happened before I'd ever seen her name, I would not have this little friend. But I do, and with each moment that resonates between us, we get to step back and marvel at the ways that we're woven into clandestine constellation; we get to see the bright mischief twinkling in the omnipotent eyes of the Divine, reminding us with delight how we're invited into this Grand Conspiracy. Sometimes we casually volley messages about our new favorite songs or mundane details of the day, and sometimes I pull myself out of bed at 4:30 am to trade the keyboard on my phone screen for the one on my computer, because Real Realness regarding theology, secrets, questions without easy answers, insecurities, fears, hopes, struggles, and goodness is happening and I need to be able to type with both hands. It's a good friendship, an important friendship, and I am thankful. 

She's a breathing work of art, this little one. She has poems in her hands and songs saturating her skin. She is both sharp and beautifully soft, exquisitely tender and so ruggedly brave inside of that, or even perhaps because of that. She is charmingly, endearingly awkward and embraces it so fully that it turns into grace. She is fully of wisdom and she shares spiritual truths with eloquence and profundity, and the work she does daily is explicitly Kingdom oriented.  Because of this, she has many who admire her from afar, who hold her up as a sort of saint: as a prophet whose admissions of humanity must always be drenched in the divine, whose frustrations and questions should be presented only when wrapped with the tidy bow of a parable. As someone who spent time living with and loving on orphans daily, I have a degree of empathy for what it's like when people assume your work makes you holy, when your it becomes such a large piece of your identity that you can (and perhaps are expected to) let your sins and struggles be covered by it, when it becomes your primary identifier. I know how the assumption that you are somehow inherently holier than others--even as you insist as loudly as you can that you truly are not-- can make struggle and sin feel like it needs to be a secret, how sometimes you feel like you're not allowed to show how dirt-stained and depravity-prone you are-- how every one of us is. But she has blessed me with her rawness, as I also try to share mine with her, and it's gorgeous. She's gorgeous. We remind each other of things we know, but need to remember afresh. I am thankful. 

We talked last night, as we usually do. We talked about art and our favorite movie, about strange but not surprising new connections, about what it means to wrestle with our own flesh, about longing for intimacy and the self-hatred that can come when we feel we're failing to be holy. And this morning, I woke up with these words in my inbox: 

it's so frustrating and unfair. why do I have to be evil? why can't I be good? why is it so f**king hard? why isn't the simple gospel actually simple when God doesn't answer or help or intentionally distances from me so that I need him more? what is that? how is that love? I'm so frustrated with God and frustrated at myself for being frustrated with God. like obviously it's futile. he's God and I'm scum and whatever. but it's frustrating. the rules of this universe make no sense to me.

like Jesus is supposed to be enough. but he isn't. he so isn't. and I'm so sorry for thinking that. 

I wish so much that I could sit with her, take her hands in mine, and talk with God together until Peace meets us; to run my fingertips across her back, to stare at the stars until we're smiling, to be Presence for one another, because I think that's the best and holiest thing. Alas right now I cannot, so I am writing her this letter. The questions that she's asking are ones that I know very well, that echo in my own heart, because I still remember asking them so clearly myself not so very long ago. I will probably ask them again before I make it Home. I know that she doesn't need the theological answers, because she knows them already--she just needs reassurance and clarity; a set of eyes to see her and lips that aren't her own to kiss her palms and cheeks until she remembers. 

So Little Friend, brave and bold and gorgeous in your honesty, this is a letter for when you forget. 

Please know that I see you. I see the generosity of your spirit and the love for every part of creation that shines out of your eyes. I see the messy and mundane and holy work of your hands. I see that you hold so tightly to the belief that you aren't worthy. I see not only the hope, but the pain and confusion that swirls inside of your chest. I see the fierceness and the defiance that flings itself against the walls of your heart when the fear creeps under your skin, wild-eyed and filled with doubting. I know that the voices get loud and unnerving, but I can tell you with certainty that they lie: you are not failing, Little Friend. Your ardent desire to love God with everything that you are is so beautiful, but please don't let your constant striving for holiness make you forget that you already are. 

You are holy, and wholly cherished in this very moment. Sanctification is a road, but you were breathed from stardust by the Creator of universe and He holds his perfectly beloved one in the center of His palm. You measure and mark your steps and hate yourself for your stumbles, but He watches you with eyes aglow, so well-pleased with you and overwhelmed with delight each time you move towards, singing Grace and adoration over your ever move and eager for you to hear it. Please try not to grieve the hearts of those who love you by burdening yourself with shame. It's okay that you wrestle, it's okay that you doubt--God would far rather you wrestle than shake His hand, I think, because wrestling inherently mandates a proximity, and He wants you nearer than you can imagine. 

But don't you dare call yourself, the fiercely desired one of The Author of Life, "scum" ever again. No matter how much you feel you fail at loving, no matter how inadequate or depraved you feel, your identity is written in stone by the finger of the Devine, spoken over you before you took your last breath, and will remain through the end of eternity: you are The Beloved. Let yourself believe it. Remember it. And if you forget again like you have now, I will speak it over you without ceasing and ink it into your skin over and over until you let it sink into your heart. I know that you don't believe it right now, but I won't leave until you do. 

I think sometimes when we say that "Jesus is enough", we imagine that no other unsatisfied desires should pull at us, that we should be happy and clappy and singing to Him all of the day. But this isn't heaven, Little Friend. We aren't yet in the perfect union with our Lover and with all of creation. When we are there, then yes: not a single desire will remain unfulfilled. Glory! But we are on earth, and we designed for intimacy, designed to crave, and your heart's longing is nothing wicked. Maybe when we say "Jesus is enough", we don't mean that there will never be times when you feel how you're feeling now. Maybe this is exactly when He is enough: not when we feel the closest to God, but when we feel far. Not when we're already walking on water, but the moments when we're sinking, and He reaches out His hand and pulls us up, pulls us closer. I know it feels like God has moved farther from you right now, but that is not the God that Jesus showed us, not the God who is near to the brokenhearted and the lost, who leaves the 99 to seek the one, who does nothing but turn towards and draw in with His goodness over and over and over. I know that you can't feel it right now, but you are so, so held, Little Friend. 

I know that you know these things in your heart. I know that this probably isn't fresh, new truth that you've never heard. But things that we know sometimes slip our mind, we frail and fickle human things. But Love and His Grace do not fade, and The Father whispers and softly sings the truth over us until we can hear it and feel it, until we remember. And because He's wilder than I can understand, He invites each of us into the work of building and holding and lifting and reminding one another, of being the singers of the Great Song one another here on this earth. So although I ramble and falter, I'm doing my best now to lift up the melody of The Gospel. I know that you know the song, and this is a letter for when you forget. You are loved beyond your wildest imaging, Little friend. 

And I will write and sing until your heart remembers.