Here on the Edge

Ever get the feeling that things are just about to completely change?

I've had that feeling for like, half a year now. It just won't go away. And no matter how many things change (and plenty has changed, indeed), it never feels like "it." THE change. This big one I'm waiting for.

I had a feeling like this once before, in the months before I got saved. Big, uncanny feeling that my life was going to change. Maybe I'd die in a fiery car wreck or something--I just knew things couldn't go on much longer as they had been. Then, after the strange guy in Denny's witnessed to me, I was SURE things were going to change. And they did. It was more than I ever could have imagined. Neverending Night suddenly turned into Endless Day. Eternal Darkness to Eternal Light. All that, and a million things that words can't express.

But this time, I have no idea what's going to change. Just something, sometime or other.

At present, I'm hoping of course that it'll have to do with a change of career for Dave. I'm not crazy about this seeing-him-Friday-mornings-and-weekends-only thing. Neither of us is crazy about the going-to-bed-after-it's-light-out-and-waking-up-around-noon thing. You feel like a slug all day, yet you've really only gotten five hours. It's not the way it's supposed to work, and your body makes sure you remember that all. The. Time.

Of course, that probably ISN'T it. I mean, I had this "something's on the horizon" feeling way back when he worked mornings (Oh, blessed memories!!! How little did I appreciate thee, beloved day shift!!!), so likely, that's not it.

I just know I'm on some kind of edge. There's some kind of corner I've been about to turn for a long time. I've prayed and prayed about it, but Heaven is suspiciously silent--meaning the change is probably supposed to be me. Again.

That's usually how it is. The things that really matter to God aren't the jobs, the schooling, the good deeds. If a big change is coming, probably no amount of changes in fortune, place and position would ever amount to much in the grand scheme, whereas a revival in my heart would be earth-shattering--if I could figure out how to get out of my own way and let it shatter away.

So, how does one go about getting out of one's own way? It's not like I've ever gotten in front of myself on purpose. If I don't know how I got there, how do I get back out? Questions that need lightning to strike.

If anyone knows how to turn oneself into a lightning rod, let me know. I'm tired of being on the edge. I just want to back away or jump off--anything but just stand there.

In the meantime, I guess I'm waiting for my lightning.

I'm just going to try.

I'll never understand how God works, even if I someday understand why.

If I hadn't been so sketchy in the employment department for so long--and if I hadn't lost my first baby--I would never have thought to apply at the Pregnancy Center. I would have always had admiration for those who did, of course, and I would have donated goods and money just like all the other good church people. But actually work there? No, no, no no no no no no.

My best Whitney worked at one for a long time while she was in college. I absolutely adored her for doing such a good work. I was so proud of her as she casually told me of meeting with fourteen-year-old mothers; of babies and mommies saved; of pro-life marches and fundraisers; of mastering the use of those little tiny models that mimic the developmental stages of unborn babies. But me? Heck no. Never in a million years. I was just not cut out for that.

And, even when I filled out the application, I made it clear that I was interested in secretarial work, or folding clothes and organising shelves. I didn't want to talk directly to anyone.

Some of my acquaintances may be shocked to hear this--although none of my close friends who've seen what a ball of insecurity I am will be--but I'm actually pretty shy. I used to be what you'd call 'painfully shy,' although the word 'paralysingly' would be a better way to put it. And, although I've gotten a lot better since I became a Christian, there are still times when I open my mouth only to discover that my tongue has gone numb, my throat has closed up, and I'm shaking a little. If I'm that bad now, imagine what I was like before, right?

Usually, my shyness attacks in direct proportion to how much I want to talk to the person. If it's someone whom I have no real intent to invest in--a cashier I just need to ask a question of, for example--I may feel a little thrill of fright, but outwardly, I'm totally fine. But if it's someone I really want to like me, or minister to, or impress, or befriend, or develop any sort of long-term relationship with, forget it. I'm a clam. Lips calcified and cemented shut.

So, since I was thrown into dealing directly with clients, and since my first client came within two weeks of beginning training, I pretty much expected the worst. I prayed against it, of course, but still expected that I'd pretty much bomb.

By comparison, what actually happened was pretty wonderful. The client, "C," and her boyfriend "K" arrived twenty minutes late, so I only had to talk to them for forty minutes. Every single one of those twenty minutes, I was rooting for them to just cancel the appointment altogether (I admit it. I was that nervous. Just not doing the whole thing sounded better to me), but they did show up.

Furthermore, when they did arrive, K and C made things extremely easy. For one thing, they brought all their kids (normally clients only bring babies). I've always loved kids, and had an easier time befriending them than adults. You never have to be nervous around a kid. Just the fact that you're a grown up makes you awesome in their eyes. Secondly, all I had to say was, "So, since I haven't met you guys before, can you tell me some of your concerns?" They just took off and filled the remainder of the time telling me what they needed help with.

God works in surprising ways. Here I am, a shy, background-type girl who'd rather be folding layettes, listening to a forty-minute shpiel about the issues this little family is dealing with, and the next thing I know, not only am I glad that I was given these clients, I feel a love for them that's tantamount to heartbreak.

If you've ever loved someone who was drowning, but didn't realize it, you know what that's like. This young couple--both of them barely old enough to have their infant son, let alone their five- and four-year-old daughters--had problems with disciplining their children, with finishing their GED's, with keeping food and clothing on their kids, with blending their families, with raising their children whom had previously been raised by other family members, with their own issues from childhood (including alcoholism and sexual abuse), with communicating with their children (whom they believed had already been sexually and physically abused by relatives)--the list went on and on. They wanted solutions to all these problems; but please, don't bother them with God. God-free solutions, please.

On the drive home, I complete mish-mash of emotions. I had joy over some of my new friendships at the center--Hannah, a secretary, and Terri, a director, have already been blessings in my life. I had sorrow over the suffering that K, C, and their little girls have been through. I wept for those little girls. I had sat there with them, trying to win laughs with goofy jokes. Their bright eyes were full of tentative trust, and their little smiles gap-toothed and adorable. How could anyone do such horrible things to such precious, helpless little girls? I'll never understand it, and I don't want to. And regarding their parents, hardened against the Lord by hypocritical "believers" who had preached Christ with their mouths, but abused them with their hands--for C and K, I had a strange mix of fear and love.

Perfect love is supposed to cast out fear. By that definition, I know that I don't have as much love yet as I should. But the fear seems valid, knowing myself as I do. I'm not afraid of them--I'm afraid of me. What if the right moment comes along--the moment when God prompts me to speak on His behalf--and I'm too afraid to speak? I'm afraid I'll be afraid. It's ridiculous to say it, but it's true. I've been me before, and I, as myself, have seen me stay silent when I should speak.

I guess I need more of the basics. I need more faith to believe that the strange, sad set of circumstances that has led me to this place was intentional. I need faith to believe that God appointed me on purpose to speak with C and K. But more importantly, I think I just need more love. If I just had enough love for them, then maybe I could for once be truly transparent--like Amy Carmicheal talked about. I could be so transparent that I'm like air, "through which, unhindered, colors pass/ as though it were not there," and Christ Himself could speak to them, showing them that the curses of sexual abuse, alcohol abuse, broken families, and failure that they so fear for themselves and for their children CAN be broken asunder--totally, completely. I hope that I can become less, that He may become more; that Jehovah Rapha, the Lord Who Heals, could restore the innocence that was ravaged away from those sweet little girls, could protect that little boy, could cleanse the deep wounds borne by C and K after lifetimes of degradation and disappointment.

It's not what I expected. It's better, and it's worse. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm in the right place at the right time--but I don't have the slightest clue what I'm doing here, or how this will end.

Hopefully, it will end like a Billy Graham movie, with the whole family becoming Christians and turning their lives around and finding financial success. More likely, it won't, and I should probably prepare myself to only be a sower, and never see a harvest. Whatever happens, I can thank God for pushing me against my will into a place where I have the actual potential of helping others in a real, and profound way.

I've often got on the case of people who whine about all the problems in the world by asking the question, "What are you doing to help?"

I guess it's my turn to ask myself that question. The world is full of child abuse, financial struggles, moral and physical decay, and families that are falling apart. So what am I going to do to help? Shy, fearful, nervous little me?

I'm going to try to help with faith, love, and a listening ear. I can't guarantee any more than that. I'm just going to try.

Fuzzy Brown Mope

I just want to say before beginning that it's extremely difficult to type with new-guitarist fingers. My right hand feels like it just got back from the dentist.

That said, today looks a lot different from yesterday. And it looks a lot different from the day before that. The last few days (and the last few posts, too) have been a little bleaker than I would like them to be.

True, I'm an aspiring writer, and writers in general have a rather gloomy reputation. Back when Dave first started to 'like' me, he did an impression for me that he called his 'writer face.' It started off with him just striking an intellectual pose and looking thoughtfully off into the distance. Then he amended it by trying to look more depressed. Writers are always depressed, he said.

I have to admit, he did remind me of someone. Even now, when I watch the video of his impression, I try to figure out whether he resembles a specific author, or just bears a general resemblance to all those dusty-looking fellows on book jackets.

Thing is, I never used to fit the writerly stereotypes. Not all the time, anyway. I had my highs and lows like anyone (any female anyone, anyway), but generally, the lows only lasted a few hours. Once a low stretches longer than a few weeks, it's worn out its welcome in a big way.

This last one wore out it's welcome. So, I tried to shake it. To do so I employed several different methods. Not neccessarily methods I thought were surefire, but things that had worked in the past to cure lesser blues. But none of my various little plans worked. In fact, they backfired, and made it worse. Basically, I used up what little emotional stamina I had left, and I was stuck being a negative, emotionally locked-down pile of goo.

Yes. Goo.

Then, something really obvious happened.

Someone other than me had a problem. She asked me to listen, and to give advice if I could. I couldn't, but I was concerned about her. I tried to cheer her up, and show her the bright side. Then someone else had a problem. I listened to her and then tried to cheer her up as well. Then another person had a problem, and another. It wasn't like any of the problems were things I could "solve" or "fix," or really do anything except just listen. Maybe recommend a book, or let them know that I once went through something similar, or knew someone who did, and everyone came out alive when it was over.

Next thing I know, I'm sitting here awake after a night of no sleep (which was very productive, I might add, for the newest novel-that-will-never-see-the-light-of-day that I'm working on), and I've just spent about half an hour churning out hymns on my husband's guitar (hymns that were equally painful to my fingers and my ears), and I've suddenly realized...I'm not a depressed writer anymore.

While I'm trying to figure out what went right, I remember being very young and listening to the Agape Land tapes.

If you've never heard them, you should. Everyone should.

Anyway, I suddenly was hearing a familiar old story in my head, about a rabbit who'd lost his joy in a sunless valley, and how two children took him back into the valley to find out where he lost it. As the rabbit and his friends went through the valley and saw all the hurting people that the rabbit had just hopped right past before, they stopped and tried to cheer up every person they saw--including my favorite creature, a dreary little guy the narrator described as a "fuzzy brown mope."

I thought the mope sounded cute.

Obviously, by the time the story ends, the rabbit gets his joy back, which is celebrated by a song all about how joy makes you hop up and down, etc.

It's kind of humbling to be twenty-some-odd years old and have to be reminded of the real source of joy by a singing bunny you first heard when you were three. But when I was three, I didn't understand the deeper issues behind the story: that focusing on self will only make you miserable, but in mourning with those who mourn and rejoicing with those who rejoice--esteeming them as better than yourself, like Philipians talks about--you find joy. Why? Probably, it's just a load off your soul to be turning outward instead of inward. We're always growing, and if we're growing in, of course it will hurt. Like ingrown toenails. I'm told they're excruciating. Yes. I believe that even ingrown toenails have a life application.

It's wonderful to see answers to the prayers I was praying--half-heartedly, I admit--regarding my gloomy, writerly funk. It's nice to have shaken the fuzzy brown mope. Like I said, he was my favorite character when I was a kid, but that was when he disappeared as soon as the happy little hopping song started.

Now, the happy hopping song can take weeks to come around. Unless of course I get some respite from self, self, self, and think about what I can do to encourage someone else who's getting too familiar with the fuzzy brown mope. The cuteness is deceitful. The truth of the story is that your joy doesn't come back when you start looking for it. It comes back when you help someone else find theirs.

On Numb Fingertips and Trying to Feel

So, I'm trying to learn to play the guitar.

I've always felt a powerful connection to the instrument, probably owing to the fact that it has saturated my environment since birth. My dad was a guitarist, my older brother a guitarist, my two younger brothers are guitarists (bass guitar being included, since it has 'guitar' in the name). Now my husband and his dad and all his brothers and one sister are guitarists, too. I'm starting to feel a little left out, you know?

But really, I'm trying to learn it because I want to be able to make music.

I have some lovely notions of not only singing and playing praises to my Master--but of being revived by the act of singing those praises. Ever since the miscarriage, there has rarely been a song in my heart. There's rarely been anything in my heart.

It's neither pleasant nor unpleasant to be numb; in fact, in terms of emotional pain, it feels a whole lot better not to feel anything at all. But my brain, and concerned family members, tell me that being numb is dangerous. It's more dangerous than being sad or angry, because I don't feel the discomfort that might make me do something about it. I'm content not to feel. And therein lies the threat.

So, the Still Small Voice suggests I try a little praise. I think it was in the movie Pollyanna that we all learned that if God takes the trouble to say something over and over again, He must have meant it. Singing praises, playing instruments, dancing for joy, making melodies with our hearts...the list goes on and on. And on. And on some more.

And then, at this very moment, I happen to be sitting near an open window. I can hear at least four different types of birds singing, and I know Who it is they sing for. They're just birds and have nothing, but He cares about them. I wish I could join in, but I don't know the words.

I guess we all have our own songs. Birds and whales and frogs and crickets don't play the kind of music we can play or sing, and they can't play each other's music, either. I would really like to know what they're saying. I think that someday, I will. And someday, maybe we'll all sing together, and find out that we make a great orchestra, singing in all our many languages.

So, my intent is to learn to make music, of the human variety. Right now, it isn't very fun at all. I'm not "instantly good" at this, and throughout my life, I've tended to be too much of a perfectionist to waste my time on things I wasn't good at right away (Hence, I never learned guitar, and I can't ski, crochet, or play most sports). I'm trying to conquer my own brain and continue to practice even though it seems kind of futile. My hands are weak, and small, and not stretchy, and my fingers move slowly. At least they don't hurt anymore, like they did the first few times. They're numb. That's one thing that has spurred me on. Maybe by letting my fingers go numb, my heart will stop being so?

As I end this post, I have a lot. I have numb fingertips on my right hand. I have no idea if the feeling will ever come back. I have Dave's fat book of hymns to practice with, although I have to skip all the ones with "B" and "F" because I don't know those chords yet. I have some lovely birds trilling and warbling outside in words I don't yet understand. I have some perfectionist tendencies to try to get over. And, I have some hope, because even though I don't really have a whole song in my heart, I have at least a few chords.

Ready...I guess

There. I've done it. I've started a blog.

I've started this blog not because I think I am all-wise and all-knowing, and therefore have A Message For the World. I started it partly because on occasion, I have something to say. But, I don't want to be pushy, and I'm terrible at face-to-face communication. So if someone voluntarily reads this, they can't rightly accuse me of pushiness. I mean, they CAN accuse me of it, just not RIGHTLY. And, since it's writing, I don't have to worry about being tongue-tied. I can untangle my tongue when I go back through and edit. How I wish we could edit face-to-face conversations. The most wealthy man in the world would be the man who could hit the 'delete' button on something he shouldn't have said.

Another reason I'm writing this blog to help me learn. I've kept a prayer journal for years, and have come to notice a definite trend in my thought patterns. Namely, until I write something down, I don't have a thought pattern. Suppose someone I cared about said or did something that upset me. I would more than likely put it out of my mind in a few days, and then forget about it. Then, a few days later, I'd find myself anxious or worried or irritable, but most of all, confused, because I couldn't figure out why I felt anxious, worried, etc. So I'd pull out my prayer journal and inform the Lord of my mental state, just to make sure that He realized I couldn't figure it out. I mean, He might have overestimated my emotional-sorting-capabilities. Or perhaps He had not been paying attention to me the last few days. Really letting things slip, you know.

For some reason, when I'm all confused like that, I start thinking that God must be confused, too. Which just offers further evidence that I'm really, genuinely, and utterly confused.

So I'd begin writing to the Lord, and as I did so, the putting-of-thoughts-to-paper would begin to solidify things. Written words have the benefit of being solid. Scripted sentences are solid. Suddenly what kept floating around in my brain like a gaseous and almost entirely senseless cloud had been transformed into something real and definitive, and my brain had one less cloud in it. One cloud at a time was turned into a solid, filling several pages of my journal, and then at some point, all the clouds were written down, and I could look down at the pages and see the substance, the real dramedy that had been going on in my head. Suddenly I "got" what my problem was, and what's more, it was no longer in control. Like that country song that I couldn't get enough of when it came out, "It's no longer inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to."

Writing helps me sort out other things, too. If I try to write down a description of a beautiful sunset, it turns into an observation on the beauty awaiting us in Heaven--something I hadn't neccessarily been thinking of until I started writing. Something that I hadn't even thought of before, perhaps, but something that I always would from that point on. Hence, when I write, I learn. I grow. I discover.

This is a season in my life when I'd like to be growing more. God's been whispering to me a lot lately. That is, if He says anything at all (this has also been a season of Heavenly silence, of the deafening variety). I have a theory. No--not really a theory, because this theory does have a certain amount of experiential evidence backing it up, in the form of "this happened last time, and the time before that." I guess this is more of a hypothesis. I have a hypothesis that if I obey the whispers I'm hearing now, I'll be able to hear more whispers as I need them. Taking one step in the direction of the one little bit of light I've been granted will, I hope, lead on to another little bit of light. God has whispered about blogging to me, and how He meant me to write for Him.

I've tried telling Him, over and over, that He's being unreasonable. I mean, I've queried for my novel multiple times, and surely being a published novelist would be the best way for me to be His writer. And everyone and their mom has a blog these days, so it's really an oversaturated market. Basically, I think this is a bad, nonsensical idea. But He seems to disagree. He seems to think I should blog, and let Him worry about what way is best in this grand tapestry He's weaving. So, with only a whisper, and not much else, I begin.

I don't know what direction this little scheme will end up taking. I don't have any light for anything beyond getting this thing up and running, and that light is about to run out as I wrap up this first post.

So, there you go, Abba. I'm not sure where You're going with this--but that's why I titled it ready when You are. Because You're ready, so I guess I am, too.