The Problem With Living

I sit here in my decorated apartment, wrapped up in a gray blanket and wet hair. There's an overcast sky coming in through the blinds, and it feels wrong not to write. The only exercises I'll do today are the tiny crunches that let me reach across the table until the cold brew's all gone. I'm eating day-old Thai food and listening to Johnnyswim, because this new album is almost as good as Christmas. We have lights strewn about and there's an empty space in the corner for where our tree will go. I haven't worn my favorite jeans in weeks, so I'll do some laundry when I feel like it. Truthfully, I need an oil change, but I just really want a wreath for the door and more garland for the mantle. I think you and I both know which one wins this Sunday battle. It'd be normal for me to feel guilty about a day like this one, underwhelmed and begging for a productive tomorrow, but not today.

Several of my friends lately have asked about my heart, things that I'm learning, the hard and the good of a new marriage. (By the way - get you friends like these. Not just anyone will care to delve into those cracks, unsure of what they might find but digging it up and carrying it on anyway). Their questions have stretched me out thin and given me room to process real and true answers to them, all of which sing to the tune of contentment and make me squirm. Is it possible to seriously search your heart and come up content? The rest of the world is spinning but not you this time. Somewhere across my line of living, I've positioned my circumstances as a wide open and torn up book, shouting out my brokenness, propping myself up against authenticity, and letting my heart ache when it needs to. There's no use in tucking it away as a secret, because if only one person relates to my present struggle, well, then that's enough for me to sleep with.

I think as I've gotten older and seen more of the world and been disappointed by many, I've noticed that favor is scattered and sprinkled like rain in a drought and that miracles still happen but mainly that pain will always be relevant until we're redeemed in full. Heroes can't hang the moon. Living costs a lot of money. Dogs die and friends get sick and most of the time even your prayers won't stop it. I'm not surprised when we suffer and I believe we should share about it. Somehow two stories of similar hurt equal one of a promised hope, and at all times, I want to be available in offering mine up for a seeking match.

Except what if all of a sudden you're a wife with a forehead stained in kisses and a place to spend Thanksgiving and leftovers in the fridge and a still, quiet house and your biggest fight of the week is between an oil change or holiday decorations? That feels like cheating, like I've abandoned my empathy post for safety and nice things. What will I tell the one who resents her singleness or the one whose family's a wreck or the one that's killing herself to meet the needs of her husband and hates to cook. I go around, scouring my life that is good in hopes of finding the wild card that'll knock it all down and let me relate again. I understand now how messed up that sounds, relating for relatability's sake and dismissing blessing in the meantime.

I used to genuinely have trouble coming up with joy when others were happy. I wore their tears when they wept, but when it was finally time to rejoice, I neglected their dancing like I just hadn't seen it. Arms crossed, it seems my heart had atrophied under the envy of when-will-that-be-me. Selfish and scared of being the only one left on earth bearing the burden of hurt. Why don't you just help me carry it. Celebration will come the day that people stop losing their jobs and burying their children and when everyone's nice and when pigs fly. I'll just be over here idolizing pain while you delight in the Lord and his grace. Ouch.

I'd pride myself on a full schedule because I didn't have a purpose and make it quick, because everyone else is finding theirs. A cute planner busting at the seams with purpose! The best at work. Straight A's until I die. Extra time for Ryan. Friends and more friends and you be my friend. Serving at church. Attending church. Family thrown in there somewhere. And a gold star beside each one because all of this is an introvert's worst nightmare. If we're being honest - and what's the point of being anything but - I don't think I knew that seasons of rest and retreat really happened for people, and it was almost irresponsible to let yourself go there. Periods of time (longer than a day) reserved for other things. Things not frantically gathered from shelves to be useful, but ones that by their very nature bear fruit. Resting. Worshipping. Going into town for coffee. Seeing leaves fall and letting it make your day. Eating dinner in the living room. Watching tv with your spouse. Checking the mail. Finding time to write. Drinking beer from a frosty glass. Tending to a new home. Waking up late and existing. "Not void of hard things but freed up for holy ones to emerge," as I've said before.

I'm sorry if you've danced and I've pinned you as a fraud. I'm sorry that I've mistaken contentment for complacency and crowned busyness as Lord of my time and energy. I'm sorry for all those times I forgot how to listen because I was trying my hardest to relate and understand. I'm sorry if I haven't indulged in the fullness of your gifts and company because I was distracted by the permanence of pain.

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." Bless you, Oscar Wilde, but as for me and this unexpected discipline of Sabbath: We plan to continue on existing. To create until we're finished. To keep being satisfied and to accept good gifts. To survive and let the days come, knowing that there will be more weeping and work to be done. To avoid getting caught up in the hullabaloo of living and doing so much that we miss the art of being. People don't need us to be experienced in the hardness to fix them. They need us to exist as the Holy Spirit (the only one who relates) passes through and becomes flesh. After all, we're only vessels and I think it's about time we do our jobs and just be.