raw

i walked out the door late this morning- sun mixed with clouds, steady gusts of crisp wind across the patchy brown snow.

i walked out onto the grassy trails of the wooded, brook-bound acres owned by our church, my home.

i took my jacket off, rounded the corner to face the chilly breeze, and put it right back on.

i wasn’t cold, exactly. but the wind made the tears on my face feel like ice as they dripped down my collarbone.

photo by Sara Alaica

the snowmelt reveals what has been hidden for so long, and i want it to be beautiful. i want the unveiling of Spring to be glorious in warmth and color- the whole cliche of new life for the whole earth and all that.

but i see layer upon layer of dead branches and leaves. melting dog poop. the toys we left out to freeze and disappear for months. my fallen window boxes. my porch covered in the evidence of my long neglect.

the trails are mud here, ice there- the brown grass barely holding the earth in place. bare trees against blue sky- if the buds are there, i can’t see them.

this is the raw of Spring, and it isn’t what i want.

i want Spring to hold Promise and Hope, not the damage and runoff of Winter. i’m aching for warm earth, soft green buds, hints of the newness, the revival of life.

and i hate how desperately i want Spring to be the perfect metaphor for my heart. but i do- i want the cheesy, overplayed platitude to ring true: when the harsh winter is over and the snow melts away, there will be treasure beneath, right?! i get to shed this cold and aching season and see what i’ve become… i was placing a lot of hope on that being true.

but i’m still in the raw. skin raw from scraping away disease and newly stretched to cover what has been removed. body raw from months of poison-attack, my cells still pushing out the intruder and re-learning their roles.

my heart and mind are raw, tenderly feeling everything- EVERYTHING.

this is the place God enters- this fresh pain and bruised soul. His movement hurts. i just want to lay still until it feels better, and He won’t stop pressing, touching, moving through my pain. and if this is peace and goodness and grace and healing, then i want it, though i’m afraid i might break into pieces.

so while i’m letting Him move and watching -quietly, painfully- waiting for the healing, i may be silent here.

i’ll keep writing, and i’ll return. but i can’t answer your question yet: what has God been teaching you? now that you’re ‘on the mend,’ do you have a new sense of purpose? i know you ask in love, and i want to be ready. but today showed me that i’m not.

what God is doing is in the dark inside me- i can’t see it, and i can’t name it for you. sharing a story before we see God’s presence and purpose in it is often unkind. unsafe, even. i believe in the strength of our stories- we lift them up as lanterns and light the way for each other. this one is not ready to be held high just yet.

thank you for your grace. i’ll see you when the raw has passed and the treasure of Spring is revealed.