Loss

 When I was younger I used to love to preach and teach God's Word.  I had a mentor in my life who saw something in me that I likely never would have seen in myself, and she was in a position to give me opportunity to teach God's Word in women's Bible studies, so she pushed me in that direction. Because I trusted her, I gave it a try, and I loved it. 

I used to get to preach and teach all the time, first with women and then with youth group.  I can look back and remember very specific moments of teaching where I knew God had shown up and given me a timely word to share.  It was exhilarating to sense His presence that way and to see Him move among the women, and later young people where I was able (by His power and with His help) to give them something to grasp onto.  It was like a nugget of Truth that I could offer with word pictures of every day things like, hair dryers, bagels and cream cheese, and broken pottery. 

It was addicting.  I wanted to do it more and more.  It wasn't that I thought I was good, but it was the thrill of sensing His strength in me.  For a long time there was a lot of opportunity, then one day, it was gone.  People in power used it against me.  People who had the ability to say "No," to me having an opportunity to share took it away.  And it happened several times in several places.  And it hurt.  I would even call the way it happened abusive, but there was nothing I could do about it.  

Oddly that's when I learned a lot about ministry... the mathematics of ministry you might say.  I realized that God did not add or divide the way I thought it had to be done.  I missed standing in front of rooms full of people to share His Word.  Honestly, it hurt like hell.  And I felt slighted.  I never blamed God, but I did wonder often why He allowed it.  I never got the answer I was looking for, and for a lot of years I felt very hurt and pretty bitter. I couldn't even talk about things like hopes and dreams, because mine had always included being able to teach and preach His Word and to minister in His name. The word "hope" would bring tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat. I refused to even allow myself to hope or dream. 

But in the midst of that, that's when that math lesson came up-- and He showed me that where as I thought I was doing more in front of a room full of people that a one on one conversation could be just as important-- maybe even more so.  Actually He showed me that my job was just to be His vessel as best as I could be, and that even if He ever chose to put me (or anyone else) in front of a room full of people, or even a cathedral full of people, God would meet each person on an individual basis. Any teacher or speaker might say one thing, but by His power it might speak a hundred different things to a hundred different people, but even still that a single private conversation was just as important in God's eyes. 

Eventually I got to a place of peace, or maybe resolve, where I could lay aside my desire to preach and speak without bitterness. In fact, for a long time, I really didn't want to do it all.  I think maybe that's why even the writing stopped.  But then I also got to the place, where I really didn't feel like I even had anything to say anymore.  Then even worse, I got to a place where whatever I had to say wasn't good, and it definitely wasn't God or His Word.  

It's a strange experience when you lose something you love, particularly painful when something is taken away without your consent, beyond your control.  The peace I had, and even the lack of desire never really took away all the pain.  It didn't fill the hole, it just made the hole easier to live with. 

I think I've been thinking back on all of this more lately because once again I am in a season of loss and hurt that is beyond my control.  My husband and I are losing our business, with it goes some of our freedom and autonomy.  Neal is going to work for someone else, and I don't even have a job lined up.  We took over the family business three years ago, and now as it closes in like three days, I feel like I failed.  It's funny, I don't feel like WE failed, I just feel like I failed.  But much worse than the state of our business is the state of our family. 

I think if I'm honest, I probably missed speaking it into the the lives of some of the most important audience He had given me-- my kids. The other night I was watching Avengers: End Game (and I am tearing up even as I type this) and there is a scene when Thor goes back in time to visit his now deceased mother, and just watching their relationship I started to cry.  I was jealous, because I don't think I have impacted my kids the way I should have.  I don't think I did them justice as a mom.  I love my kids, but I don't think I ever managed to earn that love a mom is supposed to earn from her kids. Although my relationships with my boys are in pretty good places, even though one lives thousands of miles away (and there's a time I would have said he went that far to get away from me) and the other is very independent, I don't know that they would miss me if I was gone. I don't think I earned that "My mom helped get me to my joy or success" moment. Even worse though is my relationship with my daughter, which is completely broken and shattered.  So much so, in my heart of hearts I fear she might just dance on my grave.  

And the thing of it is, there's nothing I can do about it.  Or rather no matter how much I might do (though I will confess a lot of anger that at times makes me not want to do much at all) I still don't have the control to fix anything on my own.  As close as I once thought we were, we are now that far apart and more.  Sometimes I don't feel like I can survive the loss of that relationship, but I just have to keep breathing every day.   Yes, I realize the story isn't over yet, but the loss is so painful and great and that I can't dare to ever hope it will get better.  As the Good Book says, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick..."  I know there is a word of hope that comes after that, but once again, I find myself afraid to hope because of the hurt. 

Dear God, life is so hard. And it certainly doesn't help that I haven't felt close to the Father in a really long time.  Suffering through this last year I have had seasons of pursuing Him, but they always fall away... I always fall away.  Sometimes if I am brutally honest with myself, I have to compare the way I treat the Father with the way my daughter treats me (minus the anger and animosity.)  Sad thing is that not connecting with God is probably the greatest loss in my life of all.  And even though I know I have the ability to make it better, I feel like part of me has lost the will to try. 

Loss is heavy. Loss is consuming. Loss is hard.  Loss makes hope feel very far away.