There is something to be said about writing in and through.
So many times we can’t write out the words in the midst of our own pain, our own trials, and we are so immersed in our story that it’s hard to get perspective enough to share it. And I get that. Sometimes we do need time to heal, to process, to let it breathe.
But there is something about that perspective that is powerful which can’t be tapped in the aftermath, the rebuilding, or in retrospect. Because by then, you’ve had the breakthrough, the insight, the revelation that comes from retracing the steps lived until that point. But the problem is we don’t live our lives in reverse.
“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
- Soren Kierkegaard
Because even when all the pieces aren’t in place, what we do in the now matters.
I think of how sparse the Psalms would be if David waited for the perfect ending to each of his pleas, his cries for mercy, his dark nights. If he waited to cry out until he could get a better perspective on things. Surely God would come through. Why didn’t he just sit tight and keep it all to himself until God revealed himself?
And I know as a writer, as one who processes through the spilling of words, who finds insight on the page before I ever recognize it in my heart, that writing in and through is the stuff of soul baring. This is the moment when I strip bare to injuries and battle wounds. I trace my words along scars reopened and bleeding raw and the mending of those soul bruises is in the covering of my story with yours.
I wrote from the pit of my depression last week. I sat to write and it all just came pouring onto the page.
And then I waited. I sat on the post for a few days. Because I was scared. And I’m not one to scare off hard posts easily.
But this felt like a long line of misery being dragged out and I wondered at the use of this blog.
I wanted God to use it to reveal His glory in my life and instead I was beginning to feel it was one long cry of depressed monologues and the lost ramblings of someone who couldn’t seem to find the path at all.
I wondered, as I have monthly since starting this blog, if I should call it quits. And then I hit publish anyway. I linked it up and sent it out.
And the comments starting coming, the emails, the stories shared, the understanding and prayers and gentle hugs with no expectations from me.
I stood in my pajamas with the front door stretched wide into the afternoon sun, arms wrapped around myself as tears streamed down and I felt no shame. She had just dropped by to see if my kids wanted to go to the park with hers, and had been ambushed instead by my tears and pain. My greasy hair and the dark circles of mascara unwashed from the night before casting bruises below my eyes.
And she got it, got me. And she loved me right there as she gathered coats and bundled my children out the door and into her care. And I’ve been loved right here by so many.
I’ve been blessed with these moments. The slipping of arms around my shoulders and my smile that can’t hold any longer and the words spoken soft from caring eyes, “ I understand, you don’t have to smile for me.“
And my smile gives way. I breathe it out and my face goes lax and watery but my souls begins to fill. Because to be loved hard in this place is the stuff of souls and saints binding hearts.
I sit in tears again, splashing down onto the backs of my hands as I type. Tears too heavy to hold and the words blur as I read your emails, and my heart breaks for you, and yet, there is some small part still alive and burning that rejoices.
Because I do believe. I will see again. And when we come out of darkness to glorious light, everything shines hard and beautiful. Blinding with His glory.
But until then, as I wait upon the Lord to renew my strength, I thank God for the words to write in and through, because it’s always been about story. Always.
In the beginning was the Word. And it’s not a random coincidence that God taught in parables, or that the Bible was recounted from Holy inspiration into words and stories spanning the width and breadth of Jesus and the entire range of human emotion and suffering.
It all speaks of Him. Every story points to a redeemer. Every single one. Even the ones written in and through.