I was talking to God tonight. Notice I said "to", not "with". It should be "with". And I was thinking about why I struggle so much with that. And again, my stupid human, feeble, over-logical, brain entered the equation. I can't see Him. Physically, in His flesh, in a human form, I can't see Him. Suddenly, in that moment of realization, that fact, that thought, made me so sad. For multiple reasons.
For one thing, it upsets me that my faith still doesn't seem strong enough when something such as physical evidence is not present. I know that faith is about believing in the unseen, for that is eternal. For another thing, and this is the child within me, but, despite my knowledge of Jesus, despite what I know to be true, despite what I know as reality, I don't really care. I want Him here. You can tell me all sorts of truths about how He lives within me, about how I can see Him and experience him through others, about how He is here. And all of that is truth. But that's not what I'm saying. It's not what I want. My desire is that my Jesus would stop being invisible, and that I could just see Him and touch Him and talk with Him, and not in some abstract method or form.
Then I thought about why I wanted that. What would I say? What would we do? What would He say? What would He do? (hahaha WWJD) And as I thought about this, I realized how desperately I long for His comfort. How, especially recently, I have been so scared. Literally, I don't know how I was placed in Gryffindor, because I feel as though I lack so much courage. I'm not really brave at all. Recently, dealing with life just terrifies and worries me and causes me so much anxiety. I just want to crawl into my bed and safely stay there. I feel incapable of being who I am supposed to be, who I am called to be, because I feel so inadequate. I feel so confused. I feel lost and broken. It's funny how I know the answer to all of that. After all, it is the overused, ever-so typical, Sunday school answer.
But I'm so freakin' stubborn. I just want Him here! I feel like a five year old throwing a temper tantrum (which, isn't unusual for me seeing as I act like a five year old 82% of the time). So then, I decided to think about why I wanted all this. What I desired in detail. And this is what I imagined...
Jesus walks into my room. I just cleaned it. It was the aftermath of a tornado 72 hours ago, but it's all ready for company now. I dusted and everything. He walks in and He looks around. He looks so out of place in my pink, girly room. I'm sitting on the ground, leaning against my bed. And I just stare at Him. And He stares right back, not daring to break eye contact. His eyes are kind. They have little crows feet and they crinkle in the corners, probably because He smiles and laughs so much. I feel like Jesus likes to smile and laugh. His face is the very definition of compassion. A very slight smile plays on the edges of His lips as his stares into my awestruck face. He is so glad to be in my room. And I don't even know what to do. I think about getting up. I think about saying something- anything. I think a lot of incomplete thoughts. And I'm also well aware that He knows what's going on in my head. At least, I know He's capable of knowing. Because, heck, this is freaking Jesus! I know Him. Not well enough, but I know Him. I know that well over 2,000 years ago, He was mobbed by throngs of people just wanting to catch a glimpse of Him. I know that He loved to annoy the Pharisee's and play against their hypocrisy and pride. I know that He wept when Lazarus died. I know that He told Peter that he would deny Him three times before the rooster crowed. I know that He was beaten and humiliated and murdered by the people He came to love, and be with, and save. People like me. I know that He knows every single disobedient, sinful, disgusting thing I have ever done, every thought I have ever had, every word I have ever spoken. He knows my brokenness fully. And as He's standing in my room staring into my eyes with nothing but compassion reflecting in His own, I feel naked. Because I can't hide. I can't even pretend to myself that I can hide. Because Jesus Christ is in my bedroom.
I have a hard time imagining anymore to this daydream. Because in my head, my brokenness still scares me. I hope that none of it matters. I hope that He loves me despite it all. But I just feel so inadequate to even be in His presence. But this is what I hope for.
In this moment of social awkwardness (and Jesus is the King of socially awkward situations *see the Gospel*), He comes to me. He walks towards me and bends down. He places his hand on both sides of my face. And suddenly, tears fill my eyes. And, uncontrollably, I'm losing it. He sits besides me and pulls me close to Him. He holds me tightly and rubs my back and kisses the top of my head. So far, no words have even been spoken.
After what I'm sure is an obscene amount of time, I finally pull myself into a sitting position. I take a deep breath, and I look back into the eyes of the Holy One. There are tear stains on His cheeks. I imagine that takes His thumb and rubs away the remains of my crying tirade. And slowly, I reach my own hand to His cheek, and brush away the evidence of sadness. And then, because of course, I'm a little coward, He must be the one to speak the first words.
"Dear one," He says "You forget me."
And just when I thought my eyes couldn't bear more tears, they begin to leak again. And I finally speak. The only words I can muster. They aren't beautiful, or eloquent, or at all what I would want them to be. They don't seem like enough to express the sadness and pain and regret of my heart. But they are rooted in the deepest truth.
"Jesus, I'm sorry."And the tears continue. The room is quiet. I can't look into His face anymore. I wait for Him to leave, ashamed to be in my girly pink room.
"Daughter, why do you still not see? Why do you still forget who I am? Who you know. Who you are in Me?"
"I don't deserve who You are."I angrily cry out.
"Beloved, look at me." He whispers.
And, after a while, I slowly and finally look up.
"You. Are. Loved. And Daughter, you are forgiven. It is forgotten. Long ago Dear One. You are my precious Joy. You are Mine."
And I don't know what to say. I'm dumbfounded. He is right, of course. I know this is what He has said. But it is the hardest truth to root in my heart and soul and being, because truly, a Grace such as this feels so unbelievable, uncontainable, unimaginable, unreal for a world such as ours. But here is Jesus, in my room, reminding me in person of who I am because of who He is.
And, of course this is a daydream so I don't know, but I would think that I would probably laugh. Whenever I am uncomfortable, or overwhelmed beyond belief, I tend to laugh and sometimes cry. And He joins me. And the most beautiful sound, the joy of our laughter fills the air and mind and body and soul. It fills me more than I have ever been filled. And I am complete. I am whole. Because my Savior Loves me. And I'm new.
I'm sure that with all of this, a new outburst of confidence is sure to accompany being whole in Christ. So I spring to my feet and pull Him with me.
"I want to show you everything!"
And of course, because I can condense nothing, I literally show Him all things. I talk His ear off. I show Him my favorite books and my photo albums and my friends. I show Him my stuffed animals and my favorite blanket and all my snow globes. He stumbles upon the picture of Him in the garden hanging on the wall above my bed, and He laughs at how unrealistic and untrue the portrayal of Him is. I show Him the wand my brother got me from Harry Potter World and the purple box my boyfriend made me. And then I show Him my journal and Bible. I go through and read Him different entries and He comments, "Ah, I remember when you were going through that," and "It hurt to see how much pain that caused you," and "Ha, I remember when you were so mad I wouldn't tell you what I was doing. All in good time."
Then we would go through the annotations in my Bible and laugh at my ridiculousness and He would probably roll His eyes at many of my comments.
I would take Him downstairs and show Him my absolute favorite part of my house- my baby grande piano. I would play Him every song I know. Maybe He would even ask me to teach Him one. We would laugh and talk and be together. It would be how it always should be.
I don't have an end to my daydream. Because I don't want Him to say goodbye. So I will leave it how it is. One day, I feel certain I will be with Him. I'm so impatient.
As I've been writing this, I've been thinking about how we talk at God so much. And of course, he wants us to talk. He wants us to pour our souls onto Him. That shows trust and faith. But, I think in this life, in this world, in this time, it is much more about listening. Because only when we listen can we discern even a portion of the will of the Father and only with listening can we act in true obedience. Right now, we are creatures of learning. We are being taught and disciplined. There will be a time for talking. But perhaps now is the time to be still and know our God.
For one thing, it upsets me that my faith still doesn't seem strong enough when something such as physical evidence is not present. I know that faith is about believing in the unseen, for that is eternal. For another thing, and this is the child within me, but, despite my knowledge of Jesus, despite what I know to be true, despite what I know as reality, I don't really care. I want Him here. You can tell me all sorts of truths about how He lives within me, about how I can see Him and experience him through others, about how He is here. And all of that is truth. But that's not what I'm saying. It's not what I want. My desire is that my Jesus would stop being invisible, and that I could just see Him and touch Him and talk with Him, and not in some abstract method or form.
Then I thought about why I wanted that. What would I say? What would we do? What would He say? What would He do? (hahaha WWJD) And as I thought about this, I realized how desperately I long for His comfort. How, especially recently, I have been so scared. Literally, I don't know how I was placed in Gryffindor, because I feel as though I lack so much courage. I'm not really brave at all. Recently, dealing with life just terrifies and worries me and causes me so much anxiety. I just want to crawl into my bed and safely stay there. I feel incapable of being who I am supposed to be, who I am called to be, because I feel so inadequate. I feel so confused. I feel lost and broken. It's funny how I know the answer to all of that. After all, it is the overused, ever-so typical, Sunday school answer.
But I'm so freakin' stubborn. I just want Him here! I feel like a five year old throwing a temper tantrum (which, isn't unusual for me seeing as I act like a five year old 82% of the time). So then, I decided to think about why I wanted all this. What I desired in detail. And this is what I imagined...
Jesus walks into my room. I just cleaned it. It was the aftermath of a tornado 72 hours ago, but it's all ready for company now. I dusted and everything. He walks in and He looks around. He looks so out of place in my pink, girly room. I'm sitting on the ground, leaning against my bed. And I just stare at Him. And He stares right back, not daring to break eye contact. His eyes are kind. They have little crows feet and they crinkle in the corners, probably because He smiles and laughs so much. I feel like Jesus likes to smile and laugh. His face is the very definition of compassion. A very slight smile plays on the edges of His lips as his stares into my awestruck face. He is so glad to be in my room. And I don't even know what to do. I think about getting up. I think about saying something- anything. I think a lot of incomplete thoughts. And I'm also well aware that He knows what's going on in my head. At least, I know He's capable of knowing. Because, heck, this is freaking Jesus! I know Him. Not well enough, but I know Him. I know that well over 2,000 years ago, He was mobbed by throngs of people just wanting to catch a glimpse of Him. I know that He loved to annoy the Pharisee's and play against their hypocrisy and pride. I know that He wept when Lazarus died. I know that He told Peter that he would deny Him three times before the rooster crowed. I know that He was beaten and humiliated and murdered by the people He came to love, and be with, and save. People like me. I know that He knows every single disobedient, sinful, disgusting thing I have ever done, every thought I have ever had, every word I have ever spoken. He knows my brokenness fully. And as He's standing in my room staring into my eyes with nothing but compassion reflecting in His own, I feel naked. Because I can't hide. I can't even pretend to myself that I can hide. Because Jesus Christ is in my bedroom.
I have a hard time imagining anymore to this daydream. Because in my head, my brokenness still scares me. I hope that none of it matters. I hope that He loves me despite it all. But I just feel so inadequate to even be in His presence. But this is what I hope for.
In this moment of social awkwardness (and Jesus is the King of socially awkward situations *see the Gospel*), He comes to me. He walks towards me and bends down. He places his hand on both sides of my face. And suddenly, tears fill my eyes. And, uncontrollably, I'm losing it. He sits besides me and pulls me close to Him. He holds me tightly and rubs my back and kisses the top of my head. So far, no words have even been spoken.
After what I'm sure is an obscene amount of time, I finally pull myself into a sitting position. I take a deep breath, and I look back into the eyes of the Holy One. There are tear stains on His cheeks. I imagine that takes His thumb and rubs away the remains of my crying tirade. And slowly, I reach my own hand to His cheek, and brush away the evidence of sadness. And then, because of course, I'm a little coward, He must be the one to speak the first words.
"Dear one," He says "You forget me."
And just when I thought my eyes couldn't bear more tears, they begin to leak again. And I finally speak. The only words I can muster. They aren't beautiful, or eloquent, or at all what I would want them to be. They don't seem like enough to express the sadness and pain and regret of my heart. But they are rooted in the deepest truth.
"Jesus, I'm sorry."And the tears continue. The room is quiet. I can't look into His face anymore. I wait for Him to leave, ashamed to be in my girly pink room.
"Daughter, why do you still not see? Why do you still forget who I am? Who you know. Who you are in Me?"
"I don't deserve who You are."I angrily cry out.
"Beloved, look at me." He whispers.
And, after a while, I slowly and finally look up.
"You. Are. Loved. And Daughter, you are forgiven. It is forgotten. Long ago Dear One. You are my precious Joy. You are Mine."
And I don't know what to say. I'm dumbfounded. He is right, of course. I know this is what He has said. But it is the hardest truth to root in my heart and soul and being, because truly, a Grace such as this feels so unbelievable, uncontainable, unimaginable, unreal for a world such as ours. But here is Jesus, in my room, reminding me in person of who I am because of who He is.
And, of course this is a daydream so I don't know, but I would think that I would probably laugh. Whenever I am uncomfortable, or overwhelmed beyond belief, I tend to laugh and sometimes cry. And He joins me. And the most beautiful sound, the joy of our laughter fills the air and mind and body and soul. It fills me more than I have ever been filled. And I am complete. I am whole. Because my Savior Loves me. And I'm new.
I'm sure that with all of this, a new outburst of confidence is sure to accompany being whole in Christ. So I spring to my feet and pull Him with me.
"I want to show you everything!"
And of course, because I can condense nothing, I literally show Him all things. I talk His ear off. I show Him my favorite books and my photo albums and my friends. I show Him my stuffed animals and my favorite blanket and all my snow globes. He stumbles upon the picture of Him in the garden hanging on the wall above my bed, and He laughs at how unrealistic and untrue the portrayal of Him is. I show Him the wand my brother got me from Harry Potter World and the purple box my boyfriend made me. And then I show Him my journal and Bible. I go through and read Him different entries and He comments, "Ah, I remember when you were going through that," and "It hurt to see how much pain that caused you," and "Ha, I remember when you were so mad I wouldn't tell you what I was doing. All in good time."
Then we would go through the annotations in my Bible and laugh at my ridiculousness and He would probably roll His eyes at many of my comments.
I would take Him downstairs and show Him my absolute favorite part of my house- my baby grande piano. I would play Him every song I know. Maybe He would even ask me to teach Him one. We would laugh and talk and be together. It would be how it always should be.
I don't have an end to my daydream. Because I don't want Him to say goodbye. So I will leave it how it is. One day, I feel certain I will be with Him. I'm so impatient.
As I've been writing this, I've been thinking about how we talk at God so much. And of course, he wants us to talk. He wants us to pour our souls onto Him. That shows trust and faith. But, I think in this life, in this world, in this time, it is much more about listening. Because only when we listen can we discern even a portion of the will of the Father and only with listening can we act in true obedience. Right now, we are creatures of learning. We are being taught and disciplined. There will be a time for talking. But perhaps now is the time to be still and know our God.
No comments:
Post a Comment