Plants that grow in houses and darkness that lives in love.

In an old house I used to live in, there were weeds that nestled right up to the walls.  They wrapped around the house, seemingly seeking to hold it, when really they sought to strangle it.  I have always thought of my failure this way, the darkness in me.  Snuggled right up next to who I am, but unable to infect it.

Nothing new.

There is no new information this morning.

It’s not news to me that if Jesus is truly the key to rest and life and joy, then I have access to rest and joy and life all the time.  Nothing has to change about my life for me to be present and find life and rest and all that I’m searching for.  It doesn’t lie on the other side of a circumstance, it lies in Jesus, who is mine now.

Fitting Jesus in the jar

What a strange feeling it is, to sit in a place you love and know that all of your life makes sense on paper, but to feel so strangely out of place or out of sorts, adrift and at sea.  This feeling can mean a few things for me.  It can mean I have something I need to grieve, something I haven’t processed, or a dream that I am gripping a little too tight that’s causing me to subconsciously withdrawal from Jesus.

But sometimes it’s just that I miss my friend, Jesus. I wish He was here with me. I wish I didn’t let stupid things crowd Him out.

July 9.

Today is the seventh July 9th since the July 9th that I flew from Italy to London.  I touched down, and drove to our destination, and turned my phone onto the wifi and heard the soft ping of the message letting me know it was finished.  He was gone.

I sat in a room by myself for a few moments, and heard strange sounds coming out of me that were sobs I supposed, but felt fake.  And then I got up quietly and left the 15+ women I was leading on a mission trip to get on a train to get to my sister’s house.  I sat in the fading rain, waiting for her to pick me up from the station, my heart hollow and numb and absently watched as the clouds parted and the light and mist turned into a rainbow.

Is this grief?

The first time I was personally introduced to the concept of ‘grief’, it was almost seven years ago to the day.  I was sitting across the table from a dear friend in a coffee shop.  I was trying to wrap words around all the strange feelings I was having after coming back from a couple of weeks with my father – who was – at the time – dying of pancreatic cancer.  Dying, but not yet dead.

“Oh Fabs,” she said to me, leaning close with tears in her eyes, “you’re grieving.”