Weary and restless and ready

Sometimes, when I can’t pray, I write.  It’s a step that sometimes helps me find the thing that is stuck in my heart, the thorn that is keeping me from Him.  Sometimes it’s sin, sometimes it’s just confusion, sometimes it’s pain.

What I know today is that there is this restlessness inside my soul, that is shifting around more and more each day, making me too uncomfortable to ignore for much longer. Sometimes it feels like an ache, sometimes like rage, mostly like desperation.

Courage

Courage.

That is the thing I ache for. the thing that I lack that keeps me up at night.

I am not afraid of physical dangers (except serial killers and great white sharks – BUT IT IS RIGHT TO FEAR SUCH THINGS).  I am not afraid of bugs. I am not afraid of sadness. I am not afraid of relationships.

I am afraid of being belittled.   I fear the feeling of littleness that comes from having dignity stripped away.  Your voice being taken from you.  Not being heard or believed.  I am afraid of that happening to people I love and I am afraid of that happening to me.

Wrapping up Lent & the meaning of today

I’m writing this sitting at a bar in a diner. Next to me there is an older lady, drinking her coffee alone.  She’s looking around, smiling gently at others, not desperate for conversation, but not avoiding it.  She has nothing in her hands except her mug.

I, on the other hand, have a coffee, my phone, my kindle and my laptop all at my fingertips.  All available. All ready to ease me out of any discomfort that might come from being here alone on Easter Sunday.  What is it about us that is so uncomfortable at the thought of sitting, alone without distraction in a public setting.  Fear of boredom?  I think not.  I think it’s fear of being uncomfortable, fear of embarrassment; shame.

Lent 34-35: when not belonging feels good

 

I’m writing this in a coffee shop in London between appointments with old friends and new work partners.

What a strange thing it is: life.  What strange stories people tell themselves about it.  What strange explanations we have for pain or for fear or for success or for joy.  Always telling ourselves and one another stories, always trying to make sense of our experiences drawing on all the possible explanations we have been handed in our lives and finding the one that fits best.