~
I find it oddly tragic (tragically odd?) that I find myself blushing as I unpack my new apartment. I meander from task to task, losing my sponge, walking 50 times back to the kitchen for one more paper towel, all the while feeling defiant of the quiet little voice that keeps echoing the criticism that is somehow miraculously absent outside of my mind.
I assemble my computer desk and the voice asks why my computer was such a priority that it came in the first load to the apartment. Was I so pathetic I couldn’t live without my expensive toy for a few days? Why, I wasn’t even done unpacking the kitchen and here I was putting the desk together. The desk that was always my first priority when I moved. Didn’t I break it because I ignored Eric? And my eyes pass again and again over the cracked top. Didn’t he tell me, yell at me, because I didn’t listen? And I broke it.
My flush turns angry as I become aware of the voice. How did I have the audacity to think I could really do this by myself? How could I think the pictures would look okay on the wall like that? Why didn’t I have enough foresight to get everything moved at once?
I find myself shaking, halfway between tears and rage. Bottled up fear, wanting to cringe into the corner from the tirade that doesn’t really exist. That has never really existed to the volume it has always echoed in my mind. It terrifies me. It’s so loud when I’m here alone. I find myself demanding company I don’t really want in an attempt to avoid being alone.
I’m scared here. I don’t like what I hear. But, stubbornly, defiantly, I continue unpacking. Lovingly setting up my computer so it will work in the odd left-handed way I prefer. The voice doesn’t stop, in fact it mutates to the teasing tone of a friend, “Why did you do it like that? Left-handed backwards mouse and split keyboard. Whatever.” But I ignore it. I know it offers insult where there is none.
Still shaking I go to refill my fountain pen, something that is always mine alone. I sit. I write. I pray.
A friend of mine told me she always assumed she had an audience when she danced. “Even when I’m alone,” she said, “I don’t know which way to face otherwise.” I think that’s my difficulty; without an audience I don’t know which way to face.
How will I do this with no-one to tell me what to do? Behind the criticism, when my mind slows and clears of the crap that fills it, God waits in the silence for me. I’m scared of him; perhaps even more then the litany of foulness that keeps me from hearing his voice. He calls me and calls me. Like so many reluctant prophets from time immemorial, I kick against the goad, another stubborn goat, another prodigal daughter. And still he calls; calls me to solitude, calls me to service, calls me to him. He called me here so that I might better hear his voice. I am less then the least. I am the greatest of sinners, yet he would use me. The bounty of his promise terrifies me. I fall on my face crying, “I’m not worthy, oh Lord! Turn your sight away from this, the least of your children!” Like Eve I scramble uselessly in the bushes trying to hide my nakedness from the all seeing, the all knowing. Still, like the most ardent of lovers he pursues me. I run from him, hiding myself with others but always, as I emerge from their houses, late, under the cover of night, he is there waiting for me. Ever is his voice in my mind, ever is the path clear before me. Though I turn to the left and to the right always do I see, at every step, the branch that will bring me back home.
His grace, mercy, love and sacrifice make me worthy in his eyes. How can he forgive me? How can he love me? Me, who sees him so clearly and so often turn away? This is truly the greatest of mysteries. How can my mind fathom the depth of his perfection? The endless nature of his love? Truly this is the peace that passes all understanding. I know it is true for all that I will never understand why. How amazing is the love of the Lord my God. How I live in awe of his mercies. Truly I am the least of his daughters, afraid, weak in spirit, willful and defiant, yet, again and again as I come to the foot of his table, the closest to him that I dare approach, using all of my courage to get that far, he lifts me up and leads me to a seat of honor. “My daughter.” He tells the assembly. “And I love her.”
I assemble my computer desk and the voice asks why my computer was such a priority that it came in the first load to the apartment. Was I so pathetic I couldn’t live without my expensive toy for a few days? Why, I wasn’t even done unpacking the kitchen and here I was putting the desk together. The desk that was always my first priority when I moved. Didn’t I break it because I ignored Eric? And my eyes pass again and again over the cracked top. Didn’t he tell me, yell at me, because I didn’t listen? And I broke it.
My flush turns angry as I become aware of the voice. How did I have the audacity to think I could really do this by myself? How could I think the pictures would look okay on the wall like that? Why didn’t I have enough foresight to get everything moved at once?
I find myself shaking, halfway between tears and rage. Bottled up fear, wanting to cringe into the corner from the tirade that doesn’t really exist. That has never really existed to the volume it has always echoed in my mind. It terrifies me. It’s so loud when I’m here alone. I find myself demanding company I don’t really want in an attempt to avoid being alone.
I’m scared here. I don’t like what I hear. But, stubbornly, defiantly, I continue unpacking. Lovingly setting up my computer so it will work in the odd left-handed way I prefer. The voice doesn’t stop, in fact it mutates to the teasing tone of a friend, “Why did you do it like that? Left-handed backwards mouse and split keyboard. Whatever.” But I ignore it. I know it offers insult where there is none.
Still shaking I go to refill my fountain pen, something that is always mine alone. I sit. I write. I pray.
A friend of mine told me she always assumed she had an audience when she danced. “Even when I’m alone,” she said, “I don’t know which way to face otherwise.” I think that’s my difficulty; without an audience I don’t know which way to face.
How will I do this with no-one to tell me what to do? Behind the criticism, when my mind slows and clears of the crap that fills it, God waits in the silence for me. I’m scared of him; perhaps even more then the litany of foulness that keeps me from hearing his voice. He calls me and calls me. Like so many reluctant prophets from time immemorial, I kick against the goad, another stubborn goat, another prodigal daughter. And still he calls; calls me to solitude, calls me to service, calls me to him. He called me here so that I might better hear his voice. I am less then the least. I am the greatest of sinners, yet he would use me. The bounty of his promise terrifies me. I fall on my face crying, “I’m not worthy, oh Lord! Turn your sight away from this, the least of your children!” Like Eve I scramble uselessly in the bushes trying to hide my nakedness from the all seeing, the all knowing. Still, like the most ardent of lovers he pursues me. I run from him, hiding myself with others but always, as I emerge from their houses, late, under the cover of night, he is there waiting for me. Ever is his voice in my mind, ever is the path clear before me. Though I turn to the left and to the right always do I see, at every step, the branch that will bring me back home.
His grace, mercy, love and sacrifice make me worthy in his eyes. How can he forgive me? How can he love me? Me, who sees him so clearly and so often turn away? This is truly the greatest of mysteries. How can my mind fathom the depth of his perfection? The endless nature of his love? Truly this is the peace that passes all understanding. I know it is true for all that I will never understand why. How amazing is the love of the Lord my God. How I live in awe of his mercies. Truly I am the least of his daughters, afraid, weak in spirit, willful and defiant, yet, again and again as I come to the foot of his table, the closest to him that I dare approach, using all of my courage to get that far, he lifts me up and leads me to a seat of honor. “My daughter.” He tells the assembly. “And I love her.”