When the Words are Slow

                                      

 I haven't ceased to write. 

No. I have merely withdrawn to cultivate the land of words that lies buried deep beneath the life I've lived.

The temptation is to compare - my life isn't yours. Others have greater gifts. Order. Organization. Discipline. My weakness is that of fear of trying. Fear of trying and failing. Maybe just failing altogether. And yet, if 'facing our fears' is the kind of advice given for such dreads as failure, it seems I should come out ahead.

There's this thing called 'impostor syndrome.' With me, perhaps I'd like to drop the second word of that phrase, and merely stick with 'impostor' because the 'syndrome' part seems to indicate it is merely an experience, rather than a reality.

Please...don't. Don't jump in here with explanations of how I am all that great (because it is my God that is great). And the sense of being an impostor - of being seen as That Which I Am Not - is not only a sense, but in actuality: a reality. 

Why might 'impostor' fit me? Because you don't have to live with me. I don't intend to project an image. But people think more of me than is wise. And I have to be okay with that. Others perhaps see the best of me. And maybe my family sees the worst. But also the best, because I don't hide the worst from anyone, and so people think more of me - I am so...so authentic. Well, yeah. But that is a hard-won authenticity.

My life has certainly shaped me. The yearning for real. In Me. In You. The Church. Our world. Our society. I bet you long for that too.

And in the yearning, if it goes deep enough, I believe we come to a place of commitment: Realness will begin with me. I will tell you who I am, even if it scares you. Even if it scares me.

There are labels: shorthand for stories that wait to be told, if ever told at all. Clinicians research and collect data and codify and sort and organize until so many people show parallel symptoms that they slap a tag on it, much like a merchant taking inventory. "This one we'll call A.D.H.D." they say. "Or should we leave out the H and stick with A.D.D?" one queries. No matter, they attach the tag and a guidebook and shelve the sufferer in the case section appropriate to that type. It is good and useful information. And saves time. Gives relief - 'Oh, there's a name for this. Now I know which section I belong in.'

Or it might also be shelved in the layaway section: "You'll be paying on this one for years. We put all Trauma brands over here, and you can come visit from time to time to make a payment on this. We'll keep it for you until you're ready to take it home." 

And sometimes I kid myself into thinking there'll come a day when I'll actually bring it home. When the stories that have shaped me will meld into a reality, rather than scenes that feel like I'm reading a story-book from another time and place, where I wasn't a participant in the play. 

So, yes, the words are slow. I enter Lent and even if it weren't a practice I choose, the world has chosen it - reminders everywhere, not only in culture, but in nature itself. A time of patient waiting. The earth speaks her longing - brown grass awaits its greening. Bare branches await their clothing. Spring buds await their blooming. And the soul awaits the Rising Dawn: the glory of the Risen Christ. 

Some say to practice Lent is somehow amiss. I'll leave them to that, as surely God has each of us on a particular soul journey, and who am I to nay-say when one carries a particular conviction? I don't take much stock in the naysayers myself. Even for those who abstain from Lenten practices, the observing of others who do so must beg some questions. May I encourage the asking of good questions? Not jaded, biased, assumptive ones, but curious, engaging, and winsome ones?

Though my words come slowly, I remember that God, the Word, came quietly, and we only have a small collection of the words He spoke. If my soul must soak in His words for any words to come forth from my deep well, then so be it.

I listen to the entire book of Psalms and Proverbs regularly. These words shape and form my heart. They sometimes seem abrupt. Sometimes I don't connect. But their poetic pace catches me off-guard and plants word-pictures in me, to germinate and flourish and bring forth fruit in its due season.

The season of fruitfulness awaits. It is far off, after spring has passed and summer's heat and rain swell the grain. Then we may forget these longer and sparse days of waiting. We will simply enjoy.

This is what life feels like to me: sometimes the savoring of the gifts breeds forgetfulness of the sacrifice that came before. I live in the 21st century. How easy it is to forget a Saviour walked the dusty road to the cross some 2000 years ago. It is easy to live in the blessing and fruit of His life today, and forget the sacrifice that brought me this life. I wasn't here to witness it. The least I can do is pause to remember what I never knew or experienced. To engage my imagination, to listen to earth's groaning, watch the world turn and wonder if my ears are more often deaf to God's voice that shouts over nature: My heavens declare my glory!

So I will listen, pause, wait, and remember. 

Maybe you'll join me?