Doubts

Sometimes it’s ridiculously hard to be new. Sometimes it seems impossible to be new, actually. But that’s when you have to stop, turn off the tv, curl up, and simply sit in silence for a moment. Just listen to your own breathing and the sound of your fingers clicking merrily along on the keyboard. I have always loved that sound. The furious typing that signifies a burst of inspiration, a flow of pure self flowing from my fingertips. Sometimes I get distracted from my own writing by the faint image of my own hands reflected in the screen. It’s a beautiful motion. Fluid. Easy. Something it would seem I am meant to do.

After all, how many people live for the sound of a keyboard clicking? For the sound of a pen scratching across the page? How many people fall in love with the fluid lines of ink or the smell of paper? How many people long to write, simply to see the lines form on the page, regardless of what words end up coming out? I certainly don’t know anyone else quite like me. Who hears words, who has ideas, who experiences life, and cannot help but write about it. Who is seemingly paralyzed until she expresses something deep within. Who doesn’t know her own soul until she has splashed it across a page.

And yet writers are a dime a dozen, right? Jobless hipsters, holed up in coffee shops with fingerless gloves to keep their frantic fingers warm, writing poetry and prose. It’s all obscure, it’s all poetic, all romantic, all breaking the mold only to fall conveniently into another… and it all simply seems to add to white noise. After all, what is one more blog? What is 1559 page views out of an entire world full of people? Out of countless blogs, countless souls poured out, countless thoughts expounded upon, countless new ideas endlessly repeated, what does it really mean?

I’ve thought since I was a little girl that I was meant to do something great. I couldn’t tell you why that is. Perhaps because of my life verse, given to me when I was born the youngest child in a clan of six. “I wasn’t planned. I wasn’t expected. And for one terrible moment, I’m sure my parents, only beginning to adjust to “normal” life after finally leaving the hospital with their last daughter, thought, “Why, God? Why now?” I was the last thing on their minds and the last thing they thought they needed, I’m sure.

But they knew God knew what He was doing. They trust Him like no one I have ever known, and they chose to name me Esther and give me a verse that would define my life. “Who knows but that you have come to the palace for such a time as this?” For such a time as this. For a time with hospital stays, doctor’s appointments, a terrifying diagnosis, an upturned life. For a time when we don’t understand. That is what I was born for.

Growing up I was constantly assured that God knew what He was doing when He gave me to my parents. I don’t think I ever realized until right now how incredible such assurances are, and how formative they were in a young girl’s life. I adopted that as an identity – I adopted Esther as my identity. Someone created for a purpose, for a reason. For such a time as this. And from my child’s mind came the idea that my whole life would be that way. That somehow, someway, I would be remembered. I would be important. That I would do something great. For such a time as this.

I first came to doubt that in college. And I was set free from what made me doubt. But now I return to that concept.. and I wonder.. is it true? When you are a child, it is simple to say you will do something great. You have absolutely no idea what or how, nor any concept of how difficult such a thing may be. You simply accept it, rest in it. Rejoice in it. But when you become an adult, when the date of your graduation is fast approaching, when you understand even what seems an infinitesimally small piece of the world, it seems utterly impossible. And you begin to doubt.

And then you realize you actually have a dream. That, my friends, is when things become truly terrifying, when shit gets real, and when you wonder what in the world seven-year-old you was thinking. Because you see, you have a passion, you have a dream. You have a concrete picture in your head of the place you want to be, of the great thing you want to achieve, of the dream you want to see realized, and it fills you with fear. Because, quite simply, what if you don’t reach it? What if, God forbid, you simply can’t reach it? What if somehow you were horrible, tragically wrong about yourself and you were never meant for greatness? What if you were never meant for anything at all?

What if this thing you love, this thing your heart beats for, what if, well…. I hate to break it to you…. But you’re not actually that good. You’ll never get there, kid. You might as well give up now, accept reality, and move on. It’s a tragic scenario, but I think on some level we can all relate. We all know that kid in high school who thinks he’s going to the NFL. And everyone else is painfully aware of the fact that he will never. Ever. Get there. Not for lack of effort, not for lack of drive or passion, but simply for lack of talent. The artist who pours her soul into her art and well… honey… it’s just not that great. The musician who practices six hours a day and well… I’m glad you worked hard. You did your best. But the scholarship’s going to this kid over here who’s been playing since he was three years old.

We all know these stories. We all think these stories are sad, but, if we were honest with ourselves, completely justified. Despite what those motivational posters told us in high school, we can’t do everything we want to do. We can’t realize all our dreams. We can’t be everything we want to be. For a select few, their dreams will be realized. They will achieve their highest goal. But for most of us, we will have to settle for something other than what we dreamed of. And we will simply have to learn to deal with that. It’s better than being delusional, right? Better than being that guy who still thinks his novel will get published, better than that girl who still thinks the art gallery’s going to call her any day for a show. Oh… honey… sorry. Better luck next time.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s what people think of me when I write. If they think, Oh… honey… that’s nice. If they hear me speak about being a writer and think, Yeah, cause that’ll actually happen. Have fun working in a coffee shop the rest of your life. If they think that all I write is emotional fluff with no value. If it’s simply the ramblings of a girl who can’t deal with her ex or who is far too dramatic about, well… everything. And I wonder these things.. and I begin to doubt.

Last Friday was hard. I put myself out there with my writing, and, well, got put back in my place. I cried. I complained. I stopped talking about it. And for all practical purposes, I got over it. But it won’t stop coming back. It won’t stop intruding on my thoughts. What if all I write really is just fluff? Just personal, emotional, un-theological, un-brilliant, un-meaningful fluff that will only ever appeal to teenage girls who just broke up with their exes? It’s a terrible thought, to be sure. But one that has been constantly working its way through my brain lately. Living there like a parasite.

I used to think God sort of, well, wrote through me. That He was the source of my inspiration, that He directed my stories. That when the words seemed to flow and I would come away with a product even I couldn’t have predicted.. that was all Him. And it made it all seem beautiful. It made the dream seem possible. It made me confident. But then there comes the moment when your professor tells you that you simply said what you wanted to say and didn’t actually exegete the text you were supposed to exegete and while it’s all true it’s not theologically sound….. sigh. Then you begin to wonder about things.

And so I’ve been doing a lot of wondering about things. And that’s where this all started I guess. Wondering. Wondering how to be new. Wondering what the truth is in all this wondering. Wandering. I wonder as I wander? Yep. That may in fact describe my life at the moment.

But here’s the thing about Friday, about the moment that instigated all this doubt. I struggled greatly writing that sermon. I struggled because I felt there was a story that I needed to tell. There were words that needed to be said, and in moments of reflection and prayer, they were the words that wrote themselves. I loved those words. And I knew, deep down, they probably weren’t going to get me a very good grade. I knew that. I even wrote that. But I chose to tell the story rather than write for a grade. And then I still expected to get the grade. I wanted the best of both worlds rather than accepting the consequences of my own decision.

So maybe it wasn’t the disaster I thought it was. Maybe it was exactly what needed to happen. Maybe someone needed the words I spoke, Maybe I needed the words I spoke. Maybe I simply needed to let go of a grade. I guess the question is, will I trust?

And maybe my writings aren’t overly dramatic ramblings. Maybe that’s what I do every time I have meltdowns and my writing is, in fact, the way I bring logic and truth and wisdom back into my life. Maybe it’s organizing the chaos, sorting through the emotions, pouring out the drama. Maybe it’s facing my real, ugly, pathetic self, and realizing I can be new.

And yes, maybe 1559 page views, in comparison to the entire world, the entire blogosphere, in comparison to the thousands, millions, even billions of words penned every day, every moment, is nothing. Perhaps it is utterly insignificant. But that fact is, I know that people have been affected by my words. They have caused people to stop, to pause, to wonder about their lives and how they live. To contemplate how to live better. To laugh, to cry. To actually shed tears. My words. MY words, the inspiration pouring through me, has caused people to weep.

They may in fact be helping to change lives. To permanently alter the lives of those around me. To fill a need, to heal a wound, to give closure to a question long asked and never answered. Maybe it’s just me that they’re changing. But I have to think that’s worth it. I have to think that a God who knows the number of hairs on my head, who rejoices over one lost sinner who has been found… rejoices when this lost sinner gets a little more found. When this broken soul gets a little more healed. A little more new.

So I will continue to write. Perhaps it is foolishness. But perhaps in the hands of God the foolishness of this world will be used to shame the wise. Perhaps the heartfelt outpouring of my one little soul will be used to change the world. Perhaps it will only be used to change me. Either way. I’ll continue to write. To write in faith, in continuing faith that it is worth it. That I am worth it. That my words are worth it. That somehow, someway, even if I never see it or understand it, my words will be used for great things.

Who knows? Perhaps they are needed for such a time as this. 

Gomer

Gomer

            It is a moment of utter betrayal. Betrayal of the deepest kind, I think. We are all betrayed in various ways and by various people, by varying degrees of importance and impact. But this one cuts to the core of who we are.

            Our parents do not choose us, nor we them. And so while there is a sense of obligation there, a very real sense of responsibility and of inherent love despite the circumstances, still they were never given a choice. And perhaps given the choice many of us would choose another.

            But this person, this person in front of me, this person chose me. He picked me out from among the crowd and said, with words and with actions, that he had chosen me. Chosen me above all others. Chosen the me he knew and understood, the one he perceived from afar and the one he grew to intimately know.

            I think perhaps that the beauty of love is in being fully known and yet fully loved. In a very real and even tangible way that is what we are all seeking, whether or not we realize it. It is the silent motivator behind so many of our actions. Our lives are an endless struggle of trying to prove we are indeed worth it. We are worth choosing. Worth loving. That in this seemingly endless world full of skinny bodies and beautiful faces, we still rank. That to someone we may even be first.

            We don’t like to admit that. Our pride, our perceived confidence, even our American independence rebels against the concept that we may actually need another’s approval, another’s affirmation, in order to be whole. And so we tell ourselves that we don’t need anyone’s approval. But our actions belie our words. We crave affirmation like a drug.

            One taste is enough, enough to make us crave more. To lead us to base our lives off one more text. One more compliment. Hell, one more smiley face. To analyze every word spoken, every tone, real or imagined, and every glance. Every interaction becomes a contest, a competition, something to be ranked and scored. If by some chance we happen to outscore the people around us, we are accepted. If we do not, well, there’s always next time.

            It is a tiring thing, this way of living. If indeed it can be called living. I think something within us rebels against this form of existence. Something within us knows we were not meant to live this way. Well, of course it does. It is the same piece that craves to be fulfilled. It is what drives us to do these insane things. In fact, it would seem our actions are the very definition of insane as we try the same thing over, and over… and over. And nothing ever changes.

            But the problem is that we know no other form of existence. We do not understand how to live, and so we continue to simply get by. To cope. To make it through one more day.

            Until the day that we find the one thing that changes it all. The one thing that transforms our days and gives us a reason to wake up in the morning. And it would seem for a moment that life is indeed a fairy tale, a chick flick, a romance worthy of immortalizing for all to remember. For as much as we hold ourselves above them, and as much as we roll our eyes and poke self-righteous holes in the paper thin veneer of Hollywood love stories, deep down I think we all want that. Or at least a part of that. At least the sex. At least the comfort. At least the security. At least the friendship.

            Maybe that’s just a girl thing.

            But for us, when you wake up and realize there is someone out there who has chosen you, who sends you flowers, opens doors, gives compliments, takes you on dates, tells you you’re beautiful, and generally bends over backwards in order to prove to you that he is worth it, life seems a little brighter. And perhaps that is because in his quest to prove he’s worth your time and attention, you’ve learned that you’re worth his. You’re worth it. Worth the trouble and the money and the effort. Worth thinking about and investing in. Worth… it?

            Such a simple word. I haven’t the slightest clue what it is, but I sure as hell know we’re all basing our lives around that one ambiguous, unhelpful, agonizing, yet somehow all-important word. Maybe part of the problem is that we have no idea what we’re searching so desperately for. Just food for thought.

            So anyway. Whatever it is, when we think we’ve found it, life changes. And we feel great because someone else is making us feel great and the second they stop making us feel great life crashes down around us and we have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing or what we’re going to do next and life continues at its frantic pace and we simply don’t know what to do with ourselves.

            Yes, I did just type that in one breath. It was difficult.

            Basically, life falls apart.

            And yes, I am being incredibly snarky. But the truth is, that moment doesn’t feel funny. It doesn’t feel entertaining. It feels as if we’ve been punched in the stomach by Mike Tyson, like our insides just ran away to join the circus, like our heart got ripped out Indiana Jones-style and like our lungs decided to magically turn into cement. It doesn’t feel witty and entertaining, complete with pop-culture references from the 1980s. It just feels like our lifeblood drained from our days and we cannot go on.

            Because we’re not chosen anymore. It seems simplistic, but perhaps that’s why we have such a problem with rejection. We can’t stand to be rejected because it implies we’re not chosen. We’re not chosen above anyone else. We’re quite specifically chosen below someone else. And we’re not worth it anymore. To the person who mattered most, to the person we staked our identity in, we’re not worth it anymore.

            I must believe that on some level, no matter how small or seemingly significant, we have all felt that feeling. We have all experienced the pain of rejection, of being passed over, of being left behind in favor of someone newer, someone better. Someone better than we are. It is the iconic picture of the kid picked last for a team, of a young innocent face crestfallen because at that moment it is no longer about sport. It is about purpose, value, and self. And that moment screams into a young life that you are purposeless, valueless, and your self, frankly isn’t worth that much.

            We don’t like to relive those moments, but for a moment let’s go back there. Let’s return to the darkest scenes of our lives, the moment when we heard the words that should never, ever be said. What do you mean there’s someone else? What do you fucking mean there’s been someone else?

            And for a moment you curl into a ball on the floor.

            You scream, you react, you lash out. You hide behind your anger.

            You are frozen. Unable to process.

            Something is wrong. Something is deeply, fundamentally wrong.

            This was never meant to happen.

            I know. It’s hard to go there. We live our lives trying to push down those feelings, trying to explain why it was there fault, trying to piece together our shattered self-esteem and convince ourselves that they never mattered anyway. But the truth is, they did matter. They mattered more than almost anyone else. That’s why it hurts so much.

            I read a story recently about a husband whose wife had cheated on him. And not just once, not just out of anger, not in any way that leaves room for compassion, for seeing her side. But the kind of story that rips your heart out for him, that makes you wonder how he’s going to survive. It is the kind of story that almost requires empathy, and at the least leaves no room for anything but the deepest of pity and sympathy.

            It’s heart-breaking to read, really. He just wants her back. He just wants her to come home, to love him again. He’s angry. Really angry. He said some terrible things, but really, you can understand. She abandoned him without a thought for anyone who would have her. It wasn’t even like she was unhappy and abused so she went and found someone who would treat her better. She couldn’t have been treated better. Everything she could ever possibly want or need he gave her. Lacking nothing, she would not acknowledge him. Quite simply, no matter what he did, he was never enough.

            So he writes this story, and he just pours out his heart. He says things like You don’t deserve to be my wife anymore. You’re a whore, you’re throwing yourself at these people, people who don’t love you, people who are so clearly only using you. You’re running around trying to find completion when all you need is to return to my arms. I gave you absolutely everything I had!

            And it’s like you can hear his heart breaking reading it. It’s as if you’re peering into the deepest most intimate moments between lovers, a bedroom argument. Yet she’s not even there. She’s still gone, still doesn’t care. And so he’s left there, fighting with himself, fighting with reality, with the truth. Reality is, she’s gone. She’s been unfaithful and she doesn’t deserve to be his wife anymore, quite simply. If we’re talking about fairness, about justice, about the reaction we all crave when something like this happens to us or to someone we love, she deserves to be treated the same way.

            Fairness. It’s only fair. You did this. So you get to experience it. We appeal to fairness a lot, don’t we. And while it may seem he’s being vindictive by wishing her to be exposed for what she is, while it may seem he is being cruel, truly he is only being fair. He didn’t deserve this. But she did it anyway.

            So he fights with himself. Pacing back and forth, hands in hair, gesticulating. Expressive hands. Hands that held hers. Hands that ran through her hair, gently caressed her back. He gazes at those hands now, as he sits on the edge of the bed that was once theirs. But then he is too weak and they fall between his knees as he slumps, no longer able to think about it all. She deserves to be thrown out, forgotten. After all, she was no good for him. All she did was hurt him.

            That’s the smart thing to do. The wise thing, even. That’s what all his friends would tell him to do. Get out. Move on. Do what’s right for you.

            But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do what’s right for him. Doesn’t do what’s right, fair, smart, wise. He has made his decision. Stands, a gentle resolve in his eyes.

            I will win her back. I will begin again. I will prove to her my love.

            My love that never ceased. I will prove it to her once again.

            And I’m sitting here reading this and I’m thinking, Dude, what are you doing? Why the hell would you put yourself through that one more time? She’s not worth it!

           

            Wait. What? She’s not worth it? We spend our lives trying to prove that we are indeed worth it. But somehow we are qualified to say when someone else is worth it? To him she is worth it. And frankly, that’s all that matters. He doesn’t give a shit what you think. Because to him, she will always be worth it. No matter what. Regardless of what she does.

            Why? Because he’s the one who gave her worth. His love bestowed on her gives her new worth. Because he’s God, and the unfaithful wife is all of humanity, all of the creatures he poured life into out of the riches of his unending love. We are the outpouring of his love, the overflow of love that could not be contained. We were made to bask in the light of that love, forever, and ever, and ever. For all of time.

            And we didn’t choose that.

            One chose to step away, to step into darkness. And since then we have all chosen the same way. To live in darkness. To chase other lovers. To reject perfect love. To place all of our value in the lives of capricious individuals just like us who, at the drop of a hat will declare, “She’s not worth it.” To give God the feeling of having his heart ripped out, Indiana Jones-style. To, every moment of every day, a million times over, give him the phone call that says, “There’s someone else.”

            You’re just not enough for me.

            And so he paces up and down, gazing at his hands. He gives up, sighs, and rests his head against the wall for a moment, gathering himself. We don’t deserve his love. We’ve done nothing but run away, nothing but betray.

            But he sighs once more and says, “I will start over. I will begin again. I will prove to her my love.”

            She’s worth it to me.