I forced myself to slow down this morning.
As vacation reminds you as you leave it, there was much left behind, now falling behind. There is always a cost. The price paid to try to move from crawling back to walking took me out at my knees, purpose and motivation stuck on the island of Hawai’i, still drinking straight from a pineapple and reading Zadie Smith. Yes, I am reminiscing. For everything there is a time.
So after the throes of too many nights tossing and turning, olympic sprints from one thing to the next to only seriously catch up with the world that has been spinning on without you, I took a water break. Short lived and entirely necessary, beyond the chores of the home, fresh space to process through the thoughts that have been shoved into the deepest recesses of the gut in order to function.
Muddled in the steeping exhaustion and overcommittal released questions of worth, asking, “am I good enough?” The constant nagging reverberates in all corners of my being, overcompensating in any way I can.
Blank hours, a gift I shouldn’t take for granted (although, I complained about their use not being my kind of productive during prayer), allowed my natural bent for autonomy to be broken by the truth of the searching and never ceasing answer to it: I am not good enough on my own.
Goodness knows, I wish the answer was not that, my preference for affirmation earned and achieved through my endless doing. It is finished. Yet, my weary state is thankful that it isn’t the reality. Let me see. Let me see.
This isn’t exegesis, not a devotional to print out, but a testimony. I have no voice of God giving me a particular word, no song that quickly rushes from my lips, nothing extraordinary. I don’t feel anything special, no tingly feeling inside of me, just ordinary. What I am is tired, languishing; prone to wander, outrage, selfishness, pride, self-righteousness; holding out my hands asking to be filled. The ever present “I needs” flood the pages of my multi-colored journal. Yet, daily bread is there, consistent, nourishing, though I probably will not acknowledge its flavor and nutrients even as I put my head on my pillow and wake another day.
An ice storm wages war outside on the roads and vehicles, and I am grateful for the work that calls me to my comfy office chair to read for eight or more hours at a time a few days a week. I’ll reheat last night’s spaghetti dinner, tear off a piece of sourdough, and miss out on seeing the tender embrace of all that asks of me to lift my head, to look up, within the pyrex container of leftovers. Dependence is not so magical, and there is a expense in enjoying it, but it is there to be indulged in. Feast.
I know my wants, my lacks, and I splay them out for Jesus to see. He knows them already, and He still hears, listens. Grace undeserved, given, typically forgotten, can be remembered again. In this pause, there is worship, He is worthy.