Still

You are here. In my head I'm certain. But in my heart, I don't feel it, and I'm lonely for You. The stillness isn't cold nor angry, but it is profoundly silent.

It's like something has come down between You and I. Part of my heart aches to overcome it, another part weighs me down into a different kind of stillness-- stuck, like in mud, or maybe quicksand, sinking. My heart grows heavier and heavier.

I want to speak to You, but I cannot find the words. I want to hear You but You are silent, not even a still small voice, nary a whisper. I wait, but silence remains, and I'm not completely sure how I feel about that. Maybe silence would be better if not for the loneliness.
All things... that's what Your word says, so even the stillness and the silence must be good, or purposeful at least. I know You are good. I know Your plans are good.

You said, "Be still, and know." 

I'm not good at that. Always striving, always thinking, never still.

Is that why? Are you bringing me to stillness by consuming me with Your stillness and silence? Like a great ocean of nothingness, sinking, everything seems to drift farther and father away. There's nothing to grab hold of, not even You.

How far will I drift? How far will I sink until I finally find it? The stillness You've commanded.

When I finally get there, will You rescue me then?

I cannot know if or when or how...

All that I know, is...

YOU ARE GOD.

Labor

I give a LOT of props to women who make it through the process of birthing a child without any medication or help.  I'm not that kind of woman.  I was more than happy to suck in every drop of "help" the doctor and nurses were willing to offer me.  But despite medical intervention, I still remember that the "transition" stage of labor with both my bio kids was extremely intense. (Can't imagine what it would have been like WITHOUT medical help.) 

I have been thinking a lot about that word - "Transition."  I'm not a fan - not of the word, and not of the process.  It's really just a fancy way of describing change, and I REALLY don't care for that.

I remember particularly with my longer labor process with Jacob, my oldest, how things had calmed down because of my epidural - pain had been numbed, and I had been able to rest in the midst of labor.  But when transition came, I still had this huge reaction happening in my body, even though my legs were numb.  I shook, I was nauseous, the contractions intensified above the medication, but most of all, I remember wanting to give up.  I didn't feel like I could go on. But physically speaking, I was several months past the point of no return, and moments away from the reason everything was going to have "all been worth it." 

Spiritually speaking, the stage of transition is far less clearly defined. The labor is intensive, but the birth ahead is far less clear.  And unlike a doctor's admonition to "push" having a power to impact the process, there is no clear action or breathing that can necessarily have the power to impact the stage - but the desire to give up, is just as strong.

I've been thinking alot about the story in Genesis 32 where Jacob wrestles with God.  He's fallen, exhausted on the banks of the Jabbok River.  He's running from the past, dreading his future, and doing everything he can to manipulate his desired outcome, but I think at the core of the man, he knows - he is powerless. He's just there, stuck - in transition.

In my mind as the story plays out; the "Man" who is God has come there to wrestle with Jacob. I see the two of them holding the fronts of one another's robes, like schoolyard boys ready to break out into fight, each gripping the other tightly until they have fallen to the ground and are rolling and "wrestling about." 

I see myself in Jacob's position - clearly outsized by my "opponent."  I can only imagine that He has grabbed first, and my response is simply to grab back.  But when I imagine myself there, I think the sense of being dwarfed inclines me to wanting to not only let go, but push away - walk away even and give up.  It's where I feel like I am right now in my "spiritual" life.  I put the quote marks around "spiritual" because in the core of my belief I don't think that is a part of life that should be separated out as different from all the rest of what we do, but I digress.  Back to today.

I don't want to hold on - I don't even want to engage.  I am at a place where I want to let go, walk off, give up and not look back.  I am ready to walk away from "church life," which unlike a "spiritual life" can in fact be completely separated out.  It's too damn complicated.  And I don't want to do it anymore.  I'm spent.  And whereas in the labor of birthing physically, where there is a human being coming forth that cannot be stopped - in this different type of labor, I don't have to push forward, and I really can just give up.

So I let go, I stop engaging (translation: reading my bible and praying just isn't happening right now); I'm ready to walk away (Neal has given me "permission" to stop attending church for a while if I need to.) But as I turn to walk away from "the Man who is God," the other wrestler in my story, I don't know that He has returned the favor of letting go of my "robe" as well.

Don't misunderstand me - I do believe his is letting me walk away from engaging, but I don't think he's actually letting me leave Him.  In some crazy (70s toy) Stretch Armstrong kind of way, I am able to push farther and farther from where the battle was meant to begin, but He's just not letting me go.  And I just have no idea what to do with that.

Adrift

I climbed in the boat with brokenness,
I hoped for a quiet respite.
Not knowing that was the place,
Where my heart and soul would be split.

In a storm my arms gripped tight,

Holding tightly to the boat.
Waves rage high, then drop low,
Dragging me off somewhere remote.

Off to solitude and silence I drifted,
Pushed by waters so adverse.
Floating out into aloneness,
I found it a blessing and a curse.

Storm weary and beat down,
I was spent down deep in my soul.
Broken apart by crashing waves,
Can't remember what it was to be whole.

Because it was all I'd ever known,
For so long there I did remain.
Not because it didn't hurt,
But it was an acceptable level of pain.

But acceptable is ever changing,
Till it reaches a level one can't bear.
Then always comes the day,
When one just can't remain there.

The last days on the boat were painful,
Holding on as the waves began to lift.
Then suddenly it came down hard,
And I was tossed completely adrift.

But quickly I was drawn in,
To a quiet pool that seemed safe.
A hand of welcome was freely offered,
For they didn't really see this sorry waif.

Homeless, and broken and sad,
There was voice that bid me "Come."
Desperate I fell on their shore,
They didn't see from where I'd swum.

It was an ugly painful place,
Of which they could not know,
And when I told my tale,
They did not believe it so.

There on the shore I vomited,
All the poisoned waters I'd taken in.
It wasn't the way to enter their world,
A bad way to make a friend.

A beautiful place I'd landed,
I yearned to see it all.
I'd never seen such a loveliness,
Seemed like Eden before the fall.

But I didn't fit there in paradise,
There was simply too much damage done.
There was no place for ugly here,
And I knew I was the ugly one.

I found the waters beckoning me,
But I had no desire for another boat.
I just wanted into the waters,
A place to lie back and float.

Alone in the water I longed to be,
My ears covered to mute the sound.
Drifting out in the stormy waters,
Is where I wanted to be found.

Relationship is just too hard,
When I have revealed too much of me.
I don't want to try anymore,
I just want to drift alone out to sea.

So I am walking out into the water
Grabbing a wave that'll take me away,
Because belonging is so much harder,
Than just living my life astray.

Deep waters no longer alarm me,
If I know I can ride them alone.
There my pain is my problem,
But by no one my suffering known.

Adrift is powerfully beckoning,
And it's where I long to be.
I can just be sorry I'm alone,
And no longer sorry I'm me.

by Diana DePriest
© June 3, 2013

This damn desert

So tired of this damn desert
So tired of lookin' for a way out.
So tired of all these struggles,
So tired of fighting my doubt.

So hot and dry and lonely,
Wandering alone in this place.
Oh how I long to remember,
What it's like to walk in Your grace.

I don't look like who I once was,
My clothes all tattered and torn.
Though I can't find my reflection,
I know I look tired and worn.

So tired of this damn desert,
Searching for some other way.
"Lost and confused" is my mantra,
Wandering day after day.

I stop and and I point the direction,
From where I originally came.
Who brought me to this damn desert?
I want someone that I can blame.

I remember the days of before,
And at times I long to return.
I think I might like back my chains,
Rather than stand in the desert and burn.

"Father, Father," I cry out,
"Why have you brought me here?"
Is this where I'll wander forever?
That is my greatest fear.

I hate it in this damn desert,
But this is where You've led me to be.
No end of the desert before me,
But You're making changes in Me.

I rage and I rage in the desert,
Wanting to be some other place.
But You just out wait me,
Until I am seeking Your face.

That's the thing of the desert,
It's not really damned at all.
It's where my pride and sufficiency,
Finally will take their fall.

I know there is nothing in me,
That is of any purpose or use.
When I act like I've got it together,
It's all just a pitiful ruse.

There's no favor or gift I can offer,
Nothing in me that You need.
But here in the desert You're planting,
Some deep and eternal seed.

Not my plan, agenda or purpose,
That is of any eternal good.
But the empty vessel You prepare here,
A desert season withstood.

"Seek My face, seek My face," says the Whisper,
Drifting softly by in a hot desert wind.
"Not My hand, not My plan, not My will,
"But the face of your truest Friend."

You won't leave me here forever,
But You will for as long as need be.
For it's here You do the work in the desert,
Making deep lasting changes in me.

This damn desert is not a place to strive,
It's not a place that I should fight.
This damn desert is Your place,
A place for making things right.

Bitterness pushed to the edge,
Eventually all stripped away.
Confidence all redirected from me,
Directly focused Your way.

This damn desert is where You prove,
You alone are the One to provide.
This is the place where trust comes,
As soon as I'm willing to decide.

Decide You are Lord of the desert;
Decide You are Lord of my life.
Decide You're Lord of my victories;
And You are Lord in my strife.

Still I hate this damn desert,
But I know I'm not here alone.
It's here in this difficult damn desert,
That You will make Yourself known.

I am thankful that here in the desert,
You are patiently waiting on me,
To realize it's here in the desert,
Where You make an empty vessel of me.

The heat makes this clay firm to serve You,
A vessel which You can pour through.
This desert turns my eyes to who You are,
And helps me let go of what You'll do.

So Your face I'll seek in this desert,
Because that is what You have asked.
And I'll know you all that much better,
When this damn desert has passed.

I still hate it in this damn desert,
It's not where I want to be.
But I'll press on in this damn desert,
Knowing You're here in the desert with me.

by Diana DePriest
© May 29, 2013

Ticks on a clock

I've been participating in a women's mentoring group since January.  Each month we are responsible for reading a different book as a group and then we come back and discuss it the following month and sometimes we have some additional homework as well. 

This month we are reading a book called Margin written by a Christian physician. When I heard the title I didn't grasp right off what the topic was.  To me margin meant "sidelines" and truly revealing where my personal struggles lie, I thought it might be about feeling "off page" and insignificant.  It's not about that. 

Rather it's about leaving "margin" or a buffer zone in your life in every area, your time, your relationships, your health, finances, etc.  The underlying concept seems to be (I'm on chapter 4 mind you) that most people live to the edge of their capacity in these areas and leave little room for "margin."  Hence the name of the book.

Along with our reading this month, we have a few different homework assignments, a couple about goal setting personally and as a couple with my hubby, but the 3rd assignment is a 24/7 time journal - and can I just say? Wow!

For one full week we have to keep track of how we spend our time. Now, I want to say that Saturday afternoon BEFORE I went to my ladies' group and BEFORE I knew anything about the assignment I was spending time with the Lord and committing to spend more time with him.  It's been an ongoing conversation He and I have had over the last few weeks, but Saturday my daughter and her little friends did some damage to my kitchen table.  My flesh really wanted to be ticked, but my spirit knew for the sake of a budding healthy friendship for me daughter, I really needed to let it go.  And let's just be real, that wasn't something that was going to grow out of my own personality. So in a purposeful quiet time that afternoon, I let God convince me it wasn't worth sweating the small stuff.

And because I actually felt my frustration subside "in His presence," I knew I needed to spend more time there - because the reality is being the mom of 3 creates a lot of life's little frustrations, and my natural personality isn't wired for calm or passive.  But it's nice to feel victorious when spending time with Jesus brings out the best, or better in oneself.

So fast forward to this assignment which I began Monday morning of logging the details of my days for an entire week.  I started right away so in case I dropped the ball I would have ample opportunity to get on track and get it done before we meet again late next month.

Can I just tell you? When you actually log out the ticks off your clock, you suddenly feel a great responsibility about how you're spending them.  Or at least I do.  I think the accountability of knowing that someone else might take the time to sit and look at the odds and ends of how I am spending my days. 

It occurs to me, why don't I always feel that burden of responsibility?  Isn't the very Creator of Heaven and Earth watching from above?  I don't mean in a frustrated, shaking His finger sort of sense, but I can't help but wonder if He doesn't think, "Gee I wish she's stop watching that third episode of the Law and Order SVU Marathon and come and spend a little time with Me." 

I find myself keeping detailed side notes about things like what I'm eating, and how much time I am spending one on one with each of my kids.  Monday as we all sat down to dinner together and my son was sitting practically backwards in his chair to watch TV while we did it - I was suddenly more aware of the value of the time we had together.  I was grateful that my heart thought suddenly came out of my husband when he turned off the TV and we had 20 minutes of conversation over dinner.  My son did NOT self-destruct by the way.

One of the things the book has showed me is that in a LOT of ways, we have done a decent job of keeping margin in our lives.  I felt guilty earlier this spring when my son didn't make the soccer team.  I felt bad because I was never willing to sign him up for the teams that had practices 4 or 5 nights a week.  But as I'm reading the book I am reminded the reason why I didn't - family comes first.  We do a decent job of leaving certain priorities in order.  I heard my son once explain it to my daughter when she wanted to miss church for a school event.

"That's not how it works in our family," he told her.  "It goes first family, then church, then school (work) and then all the other stuff."  He's right. Now mind you "church" doesn't equal God.  God is without question the center of all those other things, but how often does all of that prioritizing pan out in the details of my days.

That's what I am getting a glimpse into as I am having to be diligent to account for the seconds and minutes off of my clock.  I know it is making me want to make different choices, like stopping to pray and journal to God in the middle parts of my day just to connect with him.  Or in deciding to let things slide a little when Jake didn't get everything I wanted done in a day, and instead of lecturing him for 15 minutes after he gets home from work, instead visiting and listening about his day. 

Suddenly I feel the privilege and burden of being the steward of this priceless resource called time.  The truth is, not one of us knows how much of it we have.  We never know which tick off the clock will be our last, or the last of someone we love.  So this homework is making me realize I want to better take care of each moment I've been given as it comes. 

So teach us to number our days,

That we may gain a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90:12



Failure

I'm going to start this blog post off with a disclaimer: This is a venting, lamenting, feeling post.  If you can't read it without trying to reassure me that what I feel isn't a reality, or to encourage me to hold on and not to give up, then please, do us both a favor, and just let move your mouse up over the "X" for this screen and click it.  Don't read another word.

If you're still here, consider yourself in a verbal agreement with me not to respond with any positive reinforcement.  Just step back into a voyeur mode, take in what you see.  If you continue reading, you've agreed to the deal.  So know that....

Give yourself a second.

Are you sure? 

OK, here we go.

I feel like a failure.

I feel like I have accomplished nothing of lasting value with my life. It doesn't matter really whether it's true or not (now some of you are swallowing hard on that agreement you made by reading on.) It doesn't matter if it's true or not, because to the depth of my being it FEELS true, and maybe that's all there really is to being a failure, feeling like one.

I have gifts and talents that I'm not using. I write blogs and books that in the big picture, no one is really reading (so perhaps there is no hard swallowing going on after all.) I have a dead end job that I stumbled backwards into out of laziness and lack of drive that now as a married mom of three and daughter of the owner of the business I work at, I am stuck in.  (Swallow it, I am stuck.  There is the mortgage, there is the school tuition, all the bills alongside to pay, and my family needs me there.)

Yesterday at church as I watched my amazing husband (being his wife is one thing I don't feel like a failure at)... as I watched my amazing husband playing the drums for worship in church amidst the pride I always feel watching him truly lead and worship, I found a new emotion creep up in the middle of it.  I was jealous. 

I was jealous watching him do what he was created to do, being used in the fullness of his gifts, being in the center of God's will and pleasure.  I confessed (foolishly) that I felt that way to my husband.  He apologized, but he had nothing to apologize for.  He too feels a lot of the stuck feelings I do in his daily job, in the routine of caring for our family, etc. (Though he is an amazing dad, and I don't think he feels like a failure in any aspect of his life - because, he's not.) But anyway... he too gets stuck in the groove sometimes, hating having to get up and work on a Saturday, etc. but once every couple of weeks or so he gets to do THAT.  That thing he was gifted and created for.  He gets to play his drums, worship God, minister to others and feel God's pleasure.

I asked him, after I told him not to be sorry.  "Do you feel God's pleasure when you play up there?"  

"Yes." 

Good I told him, because my pride and desire for that in my husband's life completely outweighs the moment of jealousy that rose up.  "I'm happy for you," I told him.  "I just miss it."

I used to feel it-- when I could teach regularly, speak to groups of women and youth and encourage them in their faith.  I felt it when I taught bible studies.  I felt it when I led small groups.  I felt it when I was a youth leader.  I felt it when I facilitated a bible study with my son and his friends in our home.  I felt it when I facilitated a post-abortion ministry-- online and again in person.  I have felt it, and I miss it desperately.

And I feel like a failure because it's gone. 

I don't feel God's pleasure very often anymore.

"Oh you're a good wife and a great mom, and you're such a talented writer..."

It's not enough.  I don't feel His pleasure in any of those things. (Well, maybe the wife part a little, but not much.)

So if that's all there is, and that's what I am supposed to be doing, then I must be doing it wrong, right?

That's failure.

And I'm mad at God.  I think ignorance would have been bliss.  I wish I had never had a door opened, never had an opportunity made, and never experienced His pleasure in any of those things in the past, because then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be missing it now.

I left a place where I felt hurt, criticized, judged and punished.  It's where I found all those gifts and talents, and the ways I felt the pleasure of God. It's also where I had them taken away. I stayed even when it hurt like hell, and it didn't make any sense because I was more concerned with waiting on God than anything else.  And when He finally released me, after over a decade of intense hurt, I thought He would move into a new place and a new season where I would find that feeling again.

But He has not. 

I am in a wonderful place and I am sitting back and watching as not only my husband, but my children also have settled in beautifully - and they are feeling God's pleasure in ways like never before.  And I am happy for them, but I am also jealous. 

Because I don't feel it.  And I find no hope that I ever will.  All the "signs" I see tell me that there is still no place for me.  There is no place for my gifts, no opportunity to become who I thought God created me to be. 

I am a failure.

I will buck up, move on, suck it up and power through, eventually, because that's what I always do, and really what other choice do I have? But not today.  Today I am overwhelmed with the sense of failure-- in what I have (not) accomplished and what I have completely become. 

I don't want to do this anymore.  In my heart of (fleshly human faulty sinful) hearts, I want to walk away from "the church" because it is there that I most profoundly feel my failure and my hopelessness.  I won't. But in the darkest places of my humanness, I really, really want to.  I don't want to watch other people doing what they love and what they were created to do, because I don't want to be jealous, and I don't want the jealousy to turn to resentment, and I don't want the resentment to water the little root of bitterness that I have yet to be completely successful in removing.  It's like an ember I can't seem to snuff, and right now, someone or something is fanning it, and all "THIS" is rising to the surface of my life.  Walking away from the fire sounds so appealing.

But it probably wouldn't work anyway, and all it would accomplish is to stumble the people I love.  And as much as I envy them for feeling God's pleasure, it would devestate me even more if they were here in this place with me having lost it.  I think it would be better to never know it than to lose it.

I suppose I am in some sort of spiritual desert.  I fear I am destined to remain here for the rest of my days-- a failure.