It’s been awhile. I miss writing here regularly. Life is good, and it’s normal, and some days it’s boring and other times I long for a moment to catch my breath as holidays and activities move at break-neck speed. We live in this constant motion, where we swing from underwhelmed to overwhelmed faster than the traffic light can change.
And sometimes we just need to sit down and be whatever it is we are.
When I don’t do that, I don’t write. Because for me writing is sitting down and being. Writing is pulling up a chair to this mirror of a screen that has seen so many seasons and letting it see another.
I hesitate to be still because it makes me tender. Emotions and thoughts and memories and questions start to surface. Good ones. Sad ones. Happy ones. Sentimental ones. Funny ones. Things I miss and things I hope for. Things I wish I knew. Things I wish I didn’t.
Days and months and seasons press one up against the next, and if I let myself, I miss them. I gird myself up for the onslaught of days instead of tucking myself into our God in the midst of these moments. And I miss them. I miss Him.
So here I am, pulling up this chair, opening up this screen, and letting it be the way that it is. I’m not even sure how to describe the way that it is. It just is. Not particularly hard. Not particularly easy. Not particularly noteworthy, really, which can make you feel a little insignificant if you don’t press yourself right up against your God. It’s a lot of getting up and getting ready. It’s a lot of cooking (yes, single people eat too) and washing dishes and doing laundry and trying to remember to take out the trash. It’s a lot of opening up a book before bed and really liking the routine of it. It’s a few mornings of coffee in the quiet by a Christmas tree, and a lot of mornings of coffee in to-go cups because I didn’t get up when the alarm went off.
It’s a lot of whispering Lord, I know You’re here into what looks like empty space and only a few moments scattered about the week when I really sense His presence. But oh, I love those moments. And I know it’s true even in the moments in between. And I’m grateful for that because I haven’t always been sure. But our faithful Father is patient and gentle and consistent enough to keep showing Himself faithful even when I forget to find my faith.
I can lose my faith. But I can’t shake His faithfulness. And that’ll get to you.
That’s the kind of thing that being still will let well up within us. The faith and the faithlessness and the realization that He was faithful far more times than I believed Him to be. And it’s a relief. Because it’s evidence that I’m not making this whole thing up. He keeps showing up when I’m not looking, like He wants to make sure I know I didn’t think Him into being.
We didn’t, you know: we didn’t make Him up. He was real long before we thought to believe. Deep breath. He’s a whole lot steadier than our faith.
And the weight of a whirling world is lifted off my shoulders. And I can pull my chair up to this screen, and I can let stillness bring all the feelings. And I can let myself be tender. And I can let myself be tended. By the God who comes so close.
I hope you find time for that too as this crazy season buzzes in your ear, as the world whirls on its merry way. I hope you’ll let yourself sit still. I hope you’ll let yourself be you—whoever and whatever and however you are. I hope you’ll pull your legs up under you on that couch or pull your chair up to that table or pull your Bible up close to your heart, and I hope you’ll let yourself be tender.
Because our Tender has come near. Immanuel. God with us.
May you find His comfort in your weeping. May you find His laughter in your joy. May you find His nearness in your longing. May you find His hope in your wonder. May you find His peace in your worry. May you find His friendship in your day.
May you find Him.
Right here in this season. Right there where you are.