A Thousand Reasons: Canto VIII {a new start}

I find myself facing the keyboard with much apprehension… something that is not entirely normal for me.

You see, I have been away from this place for too long. Not the keyboard, just this application of it. I have been less consistent toward writing in general, the past six months, but in this specifically I have come to a standstill: my list of Thank-you’s.

At first it was not with intention. It was simply me: inconsistent and forgetful. But it became something else, as the weeks dragged on. Every time I tried to put myself together for a blog post or to even touch the little notebook I write my first draft in, I stopped. I did not think about it too much. I simply passed it over, letting it slip as I began, piece by piece, to let so many things slide.

This week I’m here, but it’s a little different. God willing, we will get to seven gratitudes at the end. To the point. But, I find I cannot put them down alone—cannot restart this discipline without first being honest. I cannot be grateful until I face the thing fully: what has kept me from here.

At first it was because I was not happy. It is hard to be grateful when you are not happy. I tried and failed to think of things to add to the Canto's list, and after a while I just stopped thinking. Part of me doesn’t want to talk about it, but the rest of me knows God and I have been wrestling over it for too long. He has had to drag me too much on this road of teaching me to be honest.

You see, I lie a great deal; it’s a habit.

I lie to strangers all the time. I smile; I act respectful—composed. All that while inside my head I am an unhappy, fearful, clumsy mess. I think we all do that. We cannot say everything we think.

I also lie to acquaintances: people I don’t know well yet. I am slow to trust people with truth. So I laugh my way through all small talk, engaging in conversation while I struggle to listen fully past the buzzing in my head—all the thoughts that try to snag my attention. There are responses I cannot give to people I do not know, because I am not brave enough. If you ask that question I will smile and nod, because anything else would make the space between us an uncomfortable one. And I love, above far too many things, to be comfortable.

And then there are the lies I tell to the people I love. That circle is one I like to keep small, but God and the persistent presence of good people is always making bigger. But, yes, I lie to them. Because on those days, the dark, heavy days, I prefer to smile. Partially because I am afraid: I don’t want them to see because I really, really care what they think and I don’t want them to think less of me. Because we are all, always, less than what the people who love us think we are. God is demanding better of me in this area, forcing me step by step to tell the truth. I have told some of you different pieces: how it hurts, how I am helpless, how I am afraid. But progress is slow, and I am still so very, very afraid of talking about myself too much—of burdening my beloved friends and family past what they can bear. But all that makes me sound a little noble, doesn’t it?

*Insert a laugh here*

I’m not. Just scared, and lazy. Because I really, really hate uncomfortable conversations. We’ve been there before, you and I, but I don’t want to go there today, because it is so very, very exhausting. See? Here I am: little and lazy. Yes, I know it’s less than what you thought. I’m sorry. But at the same time I am not, because there is being born in me a very stubborn, angry streak that is so very sick of apologizing. But then, perhaps that was always there. I did consider myself a rather angry child.

But see, that is not all the lies I tell. I deceive deeper than that. I lie to myself, every day. Lots of ways. I tell myself I am fine. There is nothing wrong. I tell myself I am the worst off. Everything is messed up. Yes, I know that’s a contradiction. But self-pity is a warm, comfortable place, and I do so love to sink into it. I tell myself this whole mess is someone else’s fault. There’s something inside my head that is so very desperate to find someone else to blame. Perhaps it is the devil, inside my head telling lies. 

"Maybe it's not your fault."

"Maybe it was God, making you this weak, frightened, helpless thing."

"Or maybe there’s something you can’t remember: a repressed memory that explains everything wrong with you."

I want so bad for there the be a reason for everything—a reason that is not my fault. So I lie every day, feeding thoughts that don’t even speak directly, whispering so far back in my mind I cannot trace them. And then I lie again, telling myself I can sort out the truth of the matter if I walk the road of my mind with intention, adventuring into my thoughts until they become familiar and make sense.

If you have not guessed already, I have a gift for analyzing myself to death.

And I have started to feel the repercussions of it. There is a heavy sort of sadness that falls over me, sometimes, when I find myself in a room alone. I’ve tried to name that feeling, given it a lot of titles that are not quite right. But recently I found myself an image that made sense.

“When we believe that with enough effort, enough organization, 

or enough commitment, we can fix things that are broken, we set 

ourselves in God’s place. And when we do, we reap stress, restlessness, 

and anxiety. Instead of submitting to His yoke, we break it and run wild, 

trampling the very ground we are meant to cultivate.” 

-Hannah Anderson*

Now, that might sound a bit too energetic for a heavy feeling, but you have not seen what else it does to me: how I move just to move and push myself through half my days. How I sometimes feel mad, driven past sanity by pure self-loathing, confusion, and the need for everything to make sense. How I can clinch my fists so tightly I engrave pain into my palms with my fingernails because I am suddenly, without good reason, so very, very angry. In these I can see the image of trampling: of a temper tantrum.

And the heavy feeling comes when I grow still, when I look at the trampled earth and ask God why why why why, as if He had done it. As if He were not, constantly, begging me to let Him make it better. As if He were not already making it better. I think He is, but I do not always believe it. And I have always been terribly impatient.

You see, I think the Messiah complex Anderson was talking about may be my affliction. But I have a Self-Messiah Complex. I want so very much for my messes to be just my problem—to be something I can handle myself. I am prideful, in so many, many ways. Reading this book, I felt a clear image form in my mind: myself yoked to a bag of stones. Some of the rocks are heavier than others, and they all have different labels. Independence. Addiction. Sorrow. Perfectionism. Lonliness. Fear. Bitterness. Too-personal-to-talk-about. Etcetera, etcetera.

And I’m throwing myself against this yoke, comically digging trenches with my legs as the burden refuses to budge. I simultaneously do not understand and understand too well what Anderson is trying to tell me, when she talks about how Christ is standing right there, waiting with a new yoke.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden…”

And I am split down the middle, half too-tired-to-want-anything-else and half too-stupid-to-admit-I-can’t.

“It’s understandable that we fear the yoke. 

We fear the loss of control. We fear surrender. 

Be we must also understand that without the 

protection of the good master, we are not safe. 

From the manipulation of other masters. From 

expectations of society. From ourselves.”**

And here I stand in the ruts of my making, looking up at my God with fear. But I have been here before. I know already, personally, what the hymnist meant.

“Was Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved.”

I know it—the terror of a righteous, beautiful God. And I have also tasted it intimately: the relief when you let Him have His way. I’m not sure why I keep coming back here, keep trying to take over. It is probably just human nature, or just who I am. But I know what happens here, when I hand my yoke to Him and take the one He offers.

“How precious did that Grace appear, the hour I first believed.”

And when I touch this yoke I feel that: feel again what I felt when I was six years old, Forgiven and Accepted for the first time. At that time I felt something intangible fall off me, felt like my heart had been given wings. God willing, those wings have grown over the years, sprouted out my back and become the Spirit that shields me. I know I have battered them, along the way. I think those wings may be broken now, battered in gashes and fractured bones. I did that myself. Because I am a creature of habit, and I always crawl back to the way I was: creep away from God.

But I find I am less and less afraid of getting too far away, as the years go by and God pulls me right back to His chest with an embrace, time and time again. That is why I can sing and mean it, when I sing these words:

“Here’s my heart, Lord. Take it. Seal it. Seal it for thy courts above.”

I am not sure what to call the yoke God gives in exchange for the mine. Perhaps it is ignorance, not having to know all the answers. Or maybe it is simply Grace, enough for a lifetime. I only know I want to hold on to it this time, and hope that I learn how to do that by the Spirit, not my weak self. And I pray that the bandages God has put on my wings do their work—that the wounds will heal in time, even if relapses tend to make me tear the wrappings off.

And I also pray He makes me grateful, even if I am not consistently happy.

So here they are: seven things I’m grateful for this week.

{57} For imagery, God’s way of placing pictures in the mind that make sense.

{58} For those writers You have already set to paper, Elyon***, and how those faithful saints have found ways to say the things we all struggle with. Thank You, for giving them the words.

{59} For birds. I hear one singing now, and it is painfully beautiful. Nostalgic. Heavenly.

{60} For flowers, and that those outside my door are finally blooming. God willing, I’ll become responsible enough to water them. I feel that must be a metaphor, for something.

{61} For a new roommate. That I am able to live side by side another human soul again.

{62} For health, no matter how hard it can be to find.

{63} For food, the wonders of Your creation that makes even simple survival act enjoyable, and tasty.

*Hannah Anderson is the author of Humble Roots, a book I've been reading with a reading group at my church recently, and I highly recommend it. It is all about how much of our day to day stress stems from pride, and it is an enjoyable and challenging read.

**Another quote from Hannah Anderson in the same book.

***I think I've already mentioned this, but just to clarify: Elyon is my personal name for God. I was introduced to it through a book series I love and later realized it is actually one of the Hebrew names for God, and over the years I have found myself calling Him that when I'm trying hardest to face Him honestly. It is something like my own version of "Abba."