I thought I’d find the story here, at the edge of the world, looking out at the mountains and the ocean. I thought I’d find out how all these words fit together. All these words that are in me but refuse to be massaged into the whole. I know they belong together. I feel it in my soul, but I cannot for the life of me find the spine that would let them stand together, straight and strong.
They are disjointed, separate and yet full and fat in my soul. Thoughts thrown on a page that so clearly connect in this mad mind of mine, but the connection is impossible to capture. It dissolves each time I reach for it.
Today, I parked my car and walked off the road and after I had walked just a little while – far enough that there was no hope of being spotted from the road, no signs people ever existed in sight – I looked up at the sky and I said out loud – you are the only one who knows where I am. And then I laughed because I couldn’t help myself.
In all the world, in all the universe, He was the only person who knew where I was today.
And I don’t know why I write all this except to say that all the moments we ache to be seen, and sometimes there are moments when nothing feels better than knowing you are truly invisible.
I feel this pressure to write while I’m here – no not just write, to complete the story, to thread the words together into a whole, a unit, something finished – so I don’t lose this story He has written and that I am trying to write. And truthfully, because all around me it feels like books are being pushed and displayed and everyone has their story, finished and done, the conclusion nicely summarized as the title in some flowery font and I’m still sitting here, stuck inside the pages and unable to tell the beginning from the end.
It feels like the Church should be immune to that dreadful driving panic of competition that can sometimes bring out this part of me that is still a 12 year old girl trying to be invited to the birthday party – just not sure I belong. Wanting to prove something that I am quite certain – when I’m out here alone – I don’t have to prove.
I have this terrible fear, that if I cannot complete this story here – at the end of the world, where no one but He knows where I am – then I will never finish it, and I will be left behind.
But then there are some moments where I think – maybe I’ve left them behind.
Each day I sit down to write, I ask for help, but we know the truth – both He and I – that a part of me is using Him as much as I am desperate to be used by Him.
And I wonder sometimes – if maybe I don’t have it in me to write all the things I want to write. Maybe I am a blogger, not a novelist, and maybe I can only string together single thoughts. I can only see the scenes, and maybe you need to see the full story to write the way I want to write and maybe I’m too trapped inside the pages.
I put my head down, shut out the sky and the mountains at this little wooden desk and I say to Him: “Help me.” Because I am afraid of wasting this time.
But then this thought steals over me like a caress from a lover: He is the only one who knows where I am.
And it doesn’t matter. Does it? Who has written what or what the word count of the document is; what I feel like I’m made for, what I will or won’t do with my words – because He’s God. And who can say to Him ‘what have you done?’ Who can call Him to account for His actions?
He will spend me as He sees fit and He will not waste me and He is the only one who knows where I am.
And I lift my head and look out again, trying to see what is beyond the place where the sea becomes flat and straight, and I think, with a thrill of delight, and not a little fear that I could – that it might be possible – to get so lost in Him that no one would ever find me again.