Have you ever just wanted to run away from all you know and do your own thing? Have you been to what you thought was the point of no return? Have you been as low as a person can go? I have been to that level. I have searched it out, found it, and made it my intention to set up housekeeping there. Against the pleas of my Lord....against the advice of those who have taught me from my youth. I have made my decisions defiantly in the face of my God. Forgive me! I have fought against Him, pulling to be set free to do my own delights. He for a season had restrained me, not letting me visit the lower level. I fought. I was bitter. I argued with Him. I said "Let me go...it's my life!" Why would He not let me go? “If I am wrong, it will be only me that gets hurt,” I lied to myself, believing it. Still He held tight. Until one day, as I was again making a move to jerk free from His hold, He very quietly stepped aside. With pain in His eyes He watched me as I ran down the steps to Hell.
I exulted in my newfound freedom. As I realized I was free to do what my heart desired, I slowed down and looked around me. I reveled in the new sights, sounds and intoxicating smells that attacked my senses. So this was what I had been missing! I examined each unique step as I headed downward and I said "this is beautiful." Should I turn back? I asked myself those questions. But no, the descent was too sweet. Exciting, unknown, forbidden! Adrenaline fed me. Independence spurred me on. Tiredness and heartache pushed me ahead. I could not turn back. I would go further...and I would stay.
There is a song that I used to love to sing called "Sinner Saved by Grace". In that song, one of the verses says, "Where would I be had God not brought me gently to this place?" Could God still reach me where I was? There was danger in that thought. I did not want God to bring me out of the place I had found for myself. I liked the new world I was entering. So I hid from Him. Outwardly, I appeared I was doing well. I sang. And as I sang I feared that the words of the song I had once loved would come true in my life once more. They would call to me, begging me to let God bring me back. As I attended church and heard the sweet music I would teeter on the bottom step, pondering returning to the higher ground. But the perfume of the place where I had made my bed would draw me back in. There was comfort there. I gave myself to it wholly. I would focus on that fragrance until I was out of the power of the House of God.
Can God reach one of His own who has wandered this far? As I lay down on the earthen floor of that place to sleep my sweet dreams, I was amazed to roll over and find Him on next to me. I turned back over and willed my mind to return to the sensory pleasures around me as I drifted off to sleep. I was too far. Even He could not reach me here. And I was glad of that thought. I smiled to myself as I breathed a contented sigh. At last I was where I wanted to be....free from His grasp.
One day, quite unexpectedly to me, I begin to feel discomfort. The walls of my abode seemed to be closing in. I couldn’t breathe. I looked around at all the joys I had experienced in this place and I began to feel for the first time that I might lose them. Someone, somewhere, even seemed to whisper that I should leave. Indescribable pain racked my body as I knew the loss that I would experience if I left. I surveyed my life and saw devastation. I looked with terror at my neighbors whom I had joined there...and one whom I had invited to join me. And I saw pain. Pain that I had caused. Their eyes held the terror too. Terror of life beyond the pit. How could we ever leave this place? Sobs of distress welled up in my throat as I looked those dear ones in the face and saw only hollows where eyes should be. They were wasting away! Had I done this? It had been beautiful at first. How did it come to this? "We must go", I said to the one nearest me. And to my surprise, he nodded. But he was too weak to make his way out. I would have to guide him. I was unsure of the way. And worse than that, I was unsure of leaving. I hesitated. So did he. I looked again at his starving face and I took his hand. We were coming out!
Fear encroached upon my heart as I took each torturous step upward. What would life be like again on the high ground? I remembered it. It was colorless, tasteless and dry. My body fought me to return downward...but I could see the opening. Fresh air trickled in around the edges of a door at the top. I had not noticed the door on the way in. It was very heavy. How I had managed to get it open to go inside, I don't know. I must have been led by a more fierce desire than even I had realized as I had headed down that path. Upon pushing up the door, air rushed in. Air so cold and so crisp it took my breath away. I breathed in until my lungs hurt. Throbbing, I laid myself down on the greenest grass I had ever seen, right next to the door in the ground. My partner, weary form the ascent tumbled down beside me. Sunlight bathed over me and freshets of air played with my hair. My skin soaked in the rays until I was rosy and warm. I dreamed. In my dream, I lay on the same green grass. Beside me lay my partner. He had been with me the whole time. Together we had experienced all the nuances of the lower world, and now, we were experiencing the exhilarating highness of the open air. Ground, trees, grass, clouds never looked so good to me. Contented, smiling, I turned to my partner. He was ashen and gray. I sat up and took his face in my hands. He was cold. I awoke from the dream not knowing whether I had been able to revive him or not. Then guilty anguish touched my soul as I realized that I was the one who had invited him to join me. In these hours, as I recover from what could have been a life-quenching journey for me, I still don’t know if my partner has been able to revive. That is the worst pain of all.
God's hand on our lives is not a fetter. When we fight it, it can certainly seem so. But when we relax and let him lead, we realize that He holds us tenderly, as a lover holds the hand of his beloved. I am amazed now as I stand on solid ground. I can see down into the pit. All along the walls are warnings that I did not see—ugliness I had been blind to. The horrors of what I have escaped are making themselves known to me. I look around, dazzled by the sunlight and marvel at how gently God has placed me back where I belong.
I'm just a sinner saved by grace.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Keep Swimming
I’m swimming. Swimming hard in the icy waters. Fighting painfully against waves that would overtake me. Salt water burns my eyes. My parched throat longs for pure water. I have no time to think of that. I must keep swimming. It is all I can do. There are others around me who are flailing in the water as well. I have little opportunity to stop and ponder their own peculiar situations, but I can catch glimpses of their struggles. I cannot stop to consider them. I have my own struggle to attend to. It is a matter of life or death. If I am distracted for even a minute, I will plunge down into the icy depths, perhaps never to resurface and feel what little warmth the sun might provide. The sun. Such a strong, steady source of life on the earth. I know that to be true. However, as my body numbly heaves in the cutting water, I cannot understand the meaning of warmth. The fact that the sun provides warmth is a maddening shred of trivia in this world of ice and pain. I reject it. The sun offers no warmth here. To dwell on empty facts will drain what little resolve I have left. Keep swimming!
There is a boat nearby. From it I hear the gaiety of people who don’t know the icy waters as I do. Laughter. A foreign sound in my memory. Block it out. Keep swimming! The tinkling of glasses. Of warm wine sliding down the throats of happy travelers. Keep swimming! A glance upward confirms the existence of heady colors long forgotten: red, yellow, orange, purple. The glance costs me a stroke. My nostrils resist the invasion of the burning water. Too late. I hate myself for looking. I won’t do that again. Keep swimming! I close my eyes, disgusted at the price of beholding something beautiful. I will not see it again. I open my eyes once more to take in my present lot, and my only hope. Gray. Gray sky. Gray water. No sun. No land in sight. Gray. I have been swimming as long as I can remember. I have made no progress. There is no end in sight. But all that is in me and all that is around me demands that I keep swimming.
“I can’t!” I yelp frantically, overtaken by the hopelessness of my situation. My voice echoes weakly across the water, then dies. For a moment, there is nothing but silence as the last note of my wailing dies away. Then suddenly, the sound of a rush of water precedes a hard blow across my face. The warmth of blood trickles from my nose. “Red,” I say to myself, ignoring the pain and concentrating on the beauty of that vivid color in my otherwise bleak world. Just as quickly I dismiss the thought as destructive. As I lunge in the water, I turn my head to see my assailant. It is the swimmer next to me. The swimmer casts a look at the boat, then at me, shakes her head, then just as quickly gathers all she has to maintain her own body above water. My face throbs in the frozen stillness as I take in the meaning of the assault. Keep swimming. Don’t look. Don’t say can’t. Keep swimming. A quick survey of the water around me reveals human forms at various stages in their journeys. Some appear tired, barely keeping their heads above water. Some are not so fortunate, but take regular punishments of heads yanked below the surface of the water and throats coughing out the strangling sea. Others fare better. Some even appear to be making progress, staying strong. They are too distant to reach--to ask them what their secret is. All I know is what I have been told since this ordeal began. You must always swim. Swimming is your only hope. To question that will cost you precious air and strength. So I swim, while in my heart I know I will never survive.
In my ears I can still hear the laughter from the boat. I hear the tinkling of glasses from which I’ll never drink. I strain to hear the sounds. As I do I begin to let my limbs relax. I remain extended in the water for seconds then slowly begin to sink. Sinking is feared but it is more desirable than the painful, hopeless motions required to keep myself afloat. I give in to it. Once again I am hit sharply in the head. I look, but no person is near. Red. Is it the blood again? My burning eye painfully opens. It is a life ring. A life ring is my enemy! I cannot accept it. To do so would be to deny my fellow swimmers. To accept it would be to deny that the sun is enough to warm a body, even a frozen, failing body. Most of all, to accept it would be to deny that I am enough to save myself. I weigh my alternatives and realizing that my resolve to keep struggling has left me, I grasp the ring. I exult in the freedom I immediately experience by transferring my weight to the saving object. I dare to lift my head. The boat. I look up and suddenly I realize that it is from the boat that the ring was tossed. And then the realization hits me: I am a failure by taking the ring. I am even more of a disappointment, when I realize the boat is it’s source! In spite of the self loathing I take by accepting the ring I choose to hold on anyway. This ring is what I need to survive. It is the sun. It holds me up, gives me hope and help, and promises me warmth. Cold condemning glances skid my way across the surface of the water from those floundering in its power. They can condemn if they want. They are drowning. I am not!
At last, realizing the full power of the float, I stop swimming. My legs come up. My shoulders relax and the waves that had once tormented me carry me on a thrilling adventure as I rise and fall gloriously in the spray. Relief. I cast my eyes thankfully on the boat. The sea was never so beautiful. The sky is blue. The waves don’t feel as cold. The brilliant red and white of my companion is intoxicating. I close my eyes, and riding on the crests, I rest.
After some time of resting, my mind begins to come back to me. I hear the words of those who had made the swim before me. Be strong! Keep swimming! Right and wrong assail me. I know I am a fake. Although I have not climbed into the boat, I am wearing its colors. I have deserted my cause and those around me. After some consideration I come to a decision. As much as I enjoy the ride, and the comfort it brings, guilt and habit overtake me, and I feel compelled to give up the ring. I allow my arms loosen their grasp and the ring slips from beneath me and I begin to swim again. For a while it feels good to be back in the swim. Like it’s the right thing. This is where I was supposed to be after all. But I soon tire once more and long for the security of the ring. It has remained nearby. I easily reach out and grab it with only one hand, not putting my entire weight on it, but still finding relief in its nearness. It buoys me slightly and encourages me. This seems a good compromise. I am doing the best I can while getting the help I need. This is consoling for a time, until guilt sets in again. I am ashamed of my attachment and feel a strong sense of urgency to dispose of the device. One of the swimmers next to me, who seems to be holding his own, motions to me with a pushing action. I understand this to mean that I should push the ring further away from me, so I won’t be so easily tempted to grab it. Although I hesitate to do it, it does feel like the right thing. Living with the embarrassment and guilt of having it around is not helping. I push it away and begin swimming on my own once more.
Something about having had some relief from the endless struggle, if only briefly, has woken something up inside me. New thoughts….new desires. While I had gloried in the swim in my youth, now I see it as a chore. Floating, which I had once despised, now seems a very logical alternative. As I begin to grow tired of swimming I begin to glance around for the ring. I need to know its location just in case I need it. Then I spot it. I think I could still get to it. I begin to wonder. Not having the ring is hard. Not knowing if I could ever get back to it when I need it is a sickening thought. Panic rises in my throat as I see it drifting farther away. Soon it will be out of reach and my one chance of survival will be gone. How could I have been so stupid as to let it go? I realize that if I am to ever have the security of the ring again, I must go to it immediately. I begin to reach, to flounder…and by some tremendous act of fate, the waves chip in and bring it closer to me. I reach out for it, warm tears flowing down my face and I say to myself, “I will never let go again.”
“Is the sun real?” I ask myself as I hold on for dear life.
“Yes, I know it’s real,” I hear my own voice answering.
“How do you know it’s real?”
“I have known others who have felt its warmth. They say it’s the sweetest thing. It must be real.”
“Have you ever felt its warmth yourself?”
“I think so” I begin, “….but it has been so long now that I am not sure of it anymore.” The voices go on and on, with their ageless pleading, “If you are to ever know, you must let go of your ring. You can never experience the help the sun can give you while you depend on the ring.” The battle continues. To experience the sun I must give up the ring. Yet, when I give up the ring, the sun does not shine on me. For eternity I swim. The sun shines on. Yet I feel no warmth. In exhaustion I cling to the ring.
“Is the sun real?”
“Yes.”
“Will I ever feel its warmth?”
“I hope so. So what do I do now, keep swimming?”
There is a boat nearby. From it I hear the gaiety of people who don’t know the icy waters as I do. Laughter. A foreign sound in my memory. Block it out. Keep swimming! The tinkling of glasses. Of warm wine sliding down the throats of happy travelers. Keep swimming! A glance upward confirms the existence of heady colors long forgotten: red, yellow, orange, purple. The glance costs me a stroke. My nostrils resist the invasion of the burning water. Too late. I hate myself for looking. I won’t do that again. Keep swimming! I close my eyes, disgusted at the price of beholding something beautiful. I will not see it again. I open my eyes once more to take in my present lot, and my only hope. Gray. Gray sky. Gray water. No sun. No land in sight. Gray. I have been swimming as long as I can remember. I have made no progress. There is no end in sight. But all that is in me and all that is around me demands that I keep swimming.
“I can’t!” I yelp frantically, overtaken by the hopelessness of my situation. My voice echoes weakly across the water, then dies. For a moment, there is nothing but silence as the last note of my wailing dies away. Then suddenly, the sound of a rush of water precedes a hard blow across my face. The warmth of blood trickles from my nose. “Red,” I say to myself, ignoring the pain and concentrating on the beauty of that vivid color in my otherwise bleak world. Just as quickly I dismiss the thought as destructive. As I lunge in the water, I turn my head to see my assailant. It is the swimmer next to me. The swimmer casts a look at the boat, then at me, shakes her head, then just as quickly gathers all she has to maintain her own body above water. My face throbs in the frozen stillness as I take in the meaning of the assault. Keep swimming. Don’t look. Don’t say can’t. Keep swimming. A quick survey of the water around me reveals human forms at various stages in their journeys. Some appear tired, barely keeping their heads above water. Some are not so fortunate, but take regular punishments of heads yanked below the surface of the water and throats coughing out the strangling sea. Others fare better. Some even appear to be making progress, staying strong. They are too distant to reach--to ask them what their secret is. All I know is what I have been told since this ordeal began. You must always swim. Swimming is your only hope. To question that will cost you precious air and strength. So I swim, while in my heart I know I will never survive.
In my ears I can still hear the laughter from the boat. I hear the tinkling of glasses from which I’ll never drink. I strain to hear the sounds. As I do I begin to let my limbs relax. I remain extended in the water for seconds then slowly begin to sink. Sinking is feared but it is more desirable than the painful, hopeless motions required to keep myself afloat. I give in to it. Once again I am hit sharply in the head. I look, but no person is near. Red. Is it the blood again? My burning eye painfully opens. It is a life ring. A life ring is my enemy! I cannot accept it. To do so would be to deny my fellow swimmers. To accept it would be to deny that the sun is enough to warm a body, even a frozen, failing body. Most of all, to accept it would be to deny that I am enough to save myself. I weigh my alternatives and realizing that my resolve to keep struggling has left me, I grasp the ring. I exult in the freedom I immediately experience by transferring my weight to the saving object. I dare to lift my head. The boat. I look up and suddenly I realize that it is from the boat that the ring was tossed. And then the realization hits me: I am a failure by taking the ring. I am even more of a disappointment, when I realize the boat is it’s source! In spite of the self loathing I take by accepting the ring I choose to hold on anyway. This ring is what I need to survive. It is the sun. It holds me up, gives me hope and help, and promises me warmth. Cold condemning glances skid my way across the surface of the water from those floundering in its power. They can condemn if they want. They are drowning. I am not!
At last, realizing the full power of the float, I stop swimming. My legs come up. My shoulders relax and the waves that had once tormented me carry me on a thrilling adventure as I rise and fall gloriously in the spray. Relief. I cast my eyes thankfully on the boat. The sea was never so beautiful. The sky is blue. The waves don’t feel as cold. The brilliant red and white of my companion is intoxicating. I close my eyes, and riding on the crests, I rest.
After some time of resting, my mind begins to come back to me. I hear the words of those who had made the swim before me. Be strong! Keep swimming! Right and wrong assail me. I know I am a fake. Although I have not climbed into the boat, I am wearing its colors. I have deserted my cause and those around me. After some consideration I come to a decision. As much as I enjoy the ride, and the comfort it brings, guilt and habit overtake me, and I feel compelled to give up the ring. I allow my arms loosen their grasp and the ring slips from beneath me and I begin to swim again. For a while it feels good to be back in the swim. Like it’s the right thing. This is where I was supposed to be after all. But I soon tire once more and long for the security of the ring. It has remained nearby. I easily reach out and grab it with only one hand, not putting my entire weight on it, but still finding relief in its nearness. It buoys me slightly and encourages me. This seems a good compromise. I am doing the best I can while getting the help I need. This is consoling for a time, until guilt sets in again. I am ashamed of my attachment and feel a strong sense of urgency to dispose of the device. One of the swimmers next to me, who seems to be holding his own, motions to me with a pushing action. I understand this to mean that I should push the ring further away from me, so I won’t be so easily tempted to grab it. Although I hesitate to do it, it does feel like the right thing. Living with the embarrassment and guilt of having it around is not helping. I push it away and begin swimming on my own once more.
Something about having had some relief from the endless struggle, if only briefly, has woken something up inside me. New thoughts….new desires. While I had gloried in the swim in my youth, now I see it as a chore. Floating, which I had once despised, now seems a very logical alternative. As I begin to grow tired of swimming I begin to glance around for the ring. I need to know its location just in case I need it. Then I spot it. I think I could still get to it. I begin to wonder. Not having the ring is hard. Not knowing if I could ever get back to it when I need it is a sickening thought. Panic rises in my throat as I see it drifting farther away. Soon it will be out of reach and my one chance of survival will be gone. How could I have been so stupid as to let it go? I realize that if I am to ever have the security of the ring again, I must go to it immediately. I begin to reach, to flounder…and by some tremendous act of fate, the waves chip in and bring it closer to me. I reach out for it, warm tears flowing down my face and I say to myself, “I will never let go again.”
“Is the sun real?” I ask myself as I hold on for dear life.
“Yes, I know it’s real,” I hear my own voice answering.
“How do you know it’s real?”
“I have known others who have felt its warmth. They say it’s the sweetest thing. It must be real.”
“Have you ever felt its warmth yourself?”
“I think so” I begin, “….but it has been so long now that I am not sure of it anymore.” The voices go on and on, with their ageless pleading, “If you are to ever know, you must let go of your ring. You can never experience the help the sun can give you while you depend on the ring.” The battle continues. To experience the sun I must give up the ring. Yet, when I give up the ring, the sun does not shine on me. For eternity I swim. The sun shines on. Yet I feel no warmth. In exhaustion I cling to the ring.
“Is the sun real?”
“Yes.”
“Will I ever feel its warmth?”
“I hope so. So what do I do now, keep swimming?”
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