I’m not sorry for all the recent rants, but I do feel sorry for those around me who are trying to live normal lives and process normal things and can’t get through a simple conversation without some fire coming from me.
I’m restless you see. As restless as this culture of ours, with its swelling waves. If you will take a single step outside your normal spheres you will feel the water rising. Tides are turning. and things are changing. This world is restless, and so am I.
I have been restless for a while now. My tolerance has expired for too many things and I have found a voice out here in the wilderness that I do not know how to silence now.
They sent me here – He sent me here – I sent me here: it doesn’t matter. Either way, I was sent here for a million reasons.
To learn us, to learn the deep shape of us in the painful training of the dark of doubt. To learn how tight and fast and strong this tether is that has as bound to one another. To know how immortal and unbreakable I truly am – at the core of me. That this new creation inside of me may be young and may seem weak, but it is a baby dragon, and even at its weakest, even in its most vulnerable state, it is impenetrable.
He has been gentle with me here, protecting me, letting me hide out in this cave of ours in this wilderness and lick my wounds while he has sung over me and nursed me back to health and I have fallen in love with Him all over again.
And I will tell you the shameful truth.
I have come to love it here. In the wilderness. I watch my instagram feed fill with pictures of life back in Egypt, and I have no stomach for the life I once lived. Posts that paint flowers with blood. Fonts that romanticize pain. The beaten and broken, pausing from their pain to grin at the camera as if everything is fine.
And I look down at the quiet dirt and dust of this cave in the wilderness and I understand my brother Moses, and I understand why he might have – all those years ago – resisted a burning bush. I like this life. The simple task of drawing water from the well, and sitting down to dinner with people who don’t have the economy or need for bullshit, and who don’t care where I’ve been, and have no burden of destiny to lay up on me.
I have made a nice home for us here – for me and my Jesus. I work my day with quietness in my heart and He comes home to me and we sing songs in the dark of our love for one another in my cave in the wilderness. And it has been sweet and precious season.
A few short weeks ago now, on a December day, she and I told stories down the phone to one another of days we both remember, of a season of battle and whirlwinds. And we do not miss it, neither of us – we do not miss the court politics and the battles for power and the way crowns are polished while souls grow rusty. We didn’t know then, how sweet the air outside of Egypt could taste.
We don’t want to go back.
But we couldn’t help but hear it lingering in the air as we shared our stories of the times gone by.
Do you remember what God looked like in those days? Do you remember what it was like to be burned by the Living God?
And the questions echoed in my soul as I crawled into bed on that December night.
Do I remember what it felt like to wake up and feel the trembling smallness that comes when you see that He is not like us. Do I remember what He looks like, when He doesn’t dull Himself so that I can look at Him, when He doesn’t make Himself small enough for my arms to fit around?
Could I ever forget?
God forbid. God forbid I forget that He had to leave some of His God-self behind to even fit in this cave with me in the wilderness. God forbid that just because I know the King of Kings behind closed doors, know the way it feels when He takes off His Crown, and bends His head against mine, our sorrows mingling – God forbid I forget what it feels like to see Him up upon His white horse, in the heat of battle or upon His throne.
I love the cave in the wilderness. I love the Jesus who will sing over me and let me sleep and rest and heal. But I feel the seasons change, and He seems to shift too, beneath my hands. I feel His curves evaporate into the mist of His Spirit that burns me if I try to hold on. I feel the summons to kneel before Him and rise and be changed and it is with some surprise that I find these weak and broken bones, are strong enough to do just that.
It’s keeping me up at night.
The King in the throne room and the man in the dark – and how to give Him to people The need to give the truth about God that wouldn’t make sense on a sampler; the truth about pain and joy that doesn’t fit on social media and doesn’t end when you put the book down.
I’ve returned to Egypt, but I am not the same.
I don’t play by the same rules. I don’t need that crown anymore and I won’t call brokenness good simply because I know a healer who can restore all things. I don’t want any part of what this world offers – even if it’s wrapped up in Jesus packaging and delivered by the Church on Sunday.
I care about different things now. I have different priorities.
I live in a new land now. It is ruled by the sweet lover who visits you in the darkness, and reigns in power and might over it all.
And I am having a hard time caring what anyone thinks of me except Him.
So I am salty.
I used to hear the broken pieces of my soul bump together when I walked.
I never realized I had wings.