I have been living through some real (not literal, but real) shit lately. The past few months have ushered in the most turbulent season of my adult life, and I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me, because a lot of it is my own dang fault–we don’t control the seasons, but how we weather them–but I just want the seasons to change, goddamn it all.
And so I find myself alternately sobbing in a useless heap or blazing reckless trails because I just want some step forward, toward anywhere but here, any time but now, anything but this. Because here, now, this is some real shit.
But despite my middle-finger jabs heavenward, my hiding, my harrumphing, it’s evident God won’t consent to damn it all, and I can’t even tell you how this frustrates me. He keeps it going, keeps it going, lets the season hold heavy in the air, and he seems rather a sadist if he even exists at all. But I just know he’s not and I know he does because I can feel him and his infuriatingly persistent goodness–which, incidentally, frequently fails to feel all that good–and why he won’t just damn it all and be done I don’t know, but God.
So that’s how I found myself on the bathroom floor one night, curled over my knees as though I could wrap up my own heart for safekeeping if only I could wrap my body up into itself; or rather, that’s how I found myself managing to walk out.
The last time I had had a bathroom-floor cry, it lasted a good two hours– or, more accurately, an immobilizing, pit-of-hellish two hours–before I even managed to speak Jesus’ name. I was just too beside myself to think of asking him beside me too. I saw in immediate retrospect that this was a faulty, devastating, and, frankly, time-consuming approach to spiritual wellness. So this time when my sobs sank me to the bathroom floor, when it felt like hell washing over me, I sent up a quick and ineloquent prayer to the effect of, “Get me out of here.” And he did–he came in and got me the hell out.
The only thing I can call it is that peace that passes understanding. Not because it was so much peace or such enduring peace–it only lasted long enough to get me out of the bathroom–but because it made no sense, because it had no reason for existing within me. The way I felt, I shouldn’t have been able to stop crying after just a minute, shouldn’t have been able to move. But I was stuck, and I called “Help,” and I felt an inexplicable peace enter in–just enough to move a small and good step forward.
And that might be the way this season goes: Stuck-help-move, run-swear-stop, cry-pray-peace. There may be a hell of a lot more shit. There will likely be more middle fingers. But it will not, cannot, remain here, now, this. The seasons will change, and I know that until they do, God, in his infuriatingly persistent goodness, will keep at me and keep over me and keep me. And I can yell it all I want, but God won’t damn this season–he’ll be in it.