The Lord is asking me to hope again. Winding through Thornton Park today on those lovely red brick streets, I told Him I knew that's what He is inviting me into--hope--and I replied with tears in my eyes, "I don't know how to do that right now, Lord." What does it look like to allow Jesus to build hope into my heart again when my heart feels like a desolate wasteland?
Earlier, I was reading a book and one of the characters was saying of the other that her heart was like a wall--4 feet thick and not scalable through human effort. I stopped in that moment and asked the Lord, "Is that what my heart is like?" In the quiet, I heard, "Yes." The frustrating part of this particular story is that I feel that I've come so far towards hope, but recently I'm encountering a new and rather enormous wall. I wondered aloud to the Lord, "What would it look like for that to crumble?" and, "Why does it matter to You that it does?"
In this process, I know He has postured Himself with utter humility and patience. He's peeling the wounds and my reactions that stem from those caverns back layer by layer. I believe He sees something worth fighting for in this--I wish I could see what He does.
Here's the thing, I think He sees me. I think that's what He's trying to say to me. He sees me. That feels disconcerting. My experience has taught me that my hope is futile. God may have spoken things to me in the past and even affirmed those things through other people along the way, but the reality is, those things aren't real. At least they've yet to be seen. And well over a decade later, I wish He didn't speak them to me in the first place... It feels cruel.
But here He is reminding me of those things and I'm regularly shutting down when they're brought up. Just the other day that happened. My mom said something to me on the phone and I had to fight against hanging up on her. I didn't ask her to say what she said--we were talking about something far from this particular topic of tenderness and it was as if she dropped a verbal bomb; as it detonated in the inner part of me, a lump appeared in my throat and began to rise. I couldn't take in air--invisible sobs developed inside my chest, but I didn't cry. I stifled them away. Intently turning my focus to the intricate patterns of texture on my ceiling, I didn't allow my eyes to close for fear that the tears really would come and I'd absolutely lose it.
I feel that now. This is so deep; it's so rooted inside of me. The lack of hope I experience is like bondage. I know that in His love, He's at work setting me free into hope, but I don't know if I'll ever make it there. When He tells me that hope doesn't disappoint because His love is poured out in my heart through the Spirit who was given to me, I see the depth of my lack. I know Him to be good, but not in this. I know Him to be faithful, but not in this. I know Him to be kind, but I miss His kindness in this. I know that He is trustworthy, but my trust disappears in this.
I feel like He's been playing a game with me. He's been asking me to actively live in light of directives He's given. I have. He has asked me to pray very specifically. I have, even to the point of pain. I know that's not true--He's not toying with me. But His way of doing things has felt like an adding of insult to injury. I wish I could see it through His eyes instead of these worn, used lenses. And so it's in these moments of invitation I muster my courage to pray, "Lord, lift my eyes," and remember that His mercies are new every day.
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