Here's to New Beginnings

The sweet Christmas tree gifted to my roommate by her boss is lit. Sitting in the corner surrounded by stuff that still doesn't have a place called home, the lights are twinkling.  It's so good to be here. I never decorate for Christmas. It seems pointless since I'm always on the road. But, this, well it's nice.

Dishes are cluttering the counters and the stove top in the kitchen. Recycling is piled at the side door. Boxes and papers sit atop the table adding to the mess. But right now, I'm happy to sit looking at this tree and choosing to take a moment to breathe.

I've finished the last detail of it. Emails have been sent. I checked each of those tasks off with a smile. In fact, I prepared for this moment in the morning by scooting my way over to Starbucks and treating myself to an Eggnog Latte for my meeting. When I arrived at the meeting my friend was about to tell me there was coffee in the kitchen, but stopped herself noticing the drink in my hand. I smiled and said I was celebrating. I was.

Today marks the last day of this season I've been in. I wanted to notice it. I wanted to feel what I felt and take in the people and my surroundings. I did. And, in my heart I was saying goodbye.

Goodbye to what's happened.
Goodbye to the pain.
Goodbye to the misunderstandings.
Goodbye to feeling not very seen or wanted or needed.
Goodbye to it.

And even: Goodbye to the me that has been here hurting for so long.
Goodbye to her.

I cried on my way home. I decided not to go to the other meeting because of something else said to me a week ago. It just didn't feel worth it to me today to choose beyond confusing words. I couldn't muster the dignity to tell myself I could be there. I wanted to open my fingers and release anything remaining from this season -- like petals falling away in the wind. There's still sadness and I have a feeling I'll cry a lot in the coming weeks. I've arrived at that piece of the grief now.

But the joy is coming. I don't say that because I need to make the grief feel better. I say it because I genuinely believe it. Some people prayed over me today and one particular prayer went something like this...

"I see a grain of sand in the ocean inside of an oyster and it is irritating."

Before he said it, I thought, "I'm the grain of sand" and I began to cry.

"You're the grain of sand," he continued as I nodded. "Your perspectives have been different than those of other people. You've stood your ground and you've felt the pressure of it. God honors you for your faithfulness in speaking what you see."

There was more and it was far better than what I'm sure I related in the quotations above. Regardless, it is so true. For two years I have felt every ounce of that pressure, that difference. I feel like an irritant -- like a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal -- but the Lord has continued to tell me to continue to say it. In love. Say it in love. Sometimes I have. Sometimes I haven't. And to this day, I'm still feeling the weight of being the irritant because I don't see things the same way they do. It hurts. Badly. And it doesn't hurt because I say the things. It hurts because I've experience the wonder of being dismissed and/or the reality that it doesn't really change anything to say it. Words so filled with opportunities and hope for greater fruitfulness in love seem to fall flat in front of my very eyes.

But then I remember the oyster... Then I remember the pearl. The pearl doesn't come without the irritant. Oh God, make me a holy irritant! Cultivate so much love in me that even when the words come out, what's felt and experienced is the power of Your Presence, Your patience, goodness, joy, kindness, love. I want to be that sort of a 'her'.

I get to rest now for a bit. My privilege is to seek Him and invite Him into the remaining pieces of this mess to sort through it in only the way He will. He gets to align me back to what He's started in me. He's faithful to complete what He's started, so this is a good beginning for me. When I return, I hope to be filled up to overflowing with His love and His light. I'd love to offer that so much more to these people and this place. Even if it looks different. And, I already know it's going to look very different. I just don't know quite how yet. The next month or so will tell.

For now, I'm content to sit in view of the lovely little tree and remember how He is for me. He is for me.