{Site currently under construction. Grace for my mess?}

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Over and over and over and over





It is odd and unseasonably chilly, rain shooting sideways and trees pummeled, assaulted by wind and rain and it's exactly how I feel today, assaulted by too many voices, too many hands and needs, pummeled by the daily drudgery of bills and water leaks and bad news and work and emails. I am sleeping too long and my patience too short and there is guilt.

So much guilt.

The bookshelf boasts a worn copy of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar and I see it and nod to no one in the room because it feels like company. It is the twin brothers that suffocate, Depression and Anxiety, and they intertwine around me, strangle with bony fingers like they did Sylvia with her head in the oven.

I know what Sylvia did not know. I know how to loosen their grip, but the busyness and responsibility of mothering widens the gap and in the midst of suffocation, I am playing Matchbox cars and pouring apple juice and my soul screams silently all the while.

It all makes me a little bit crazier: Metal wheels on coffee table, boys sniffing snot over and over until my own tongue tastes salty, and the sound of humming, water running, cartoon laughter, unending questions. The click-clack of plastic building blocks fitting together while I simultaneously come undone.

"Jesus."

My heart calls to Him, guttural, like a battle cry and a curse word… a whispery, groaning plea.

This? This is how I battle the brothers, laid bare before the One.

I tear open lace curtains with grubby fingers for a glimpse of foggy vapor and drenched treetops, gasping for beauty like air and through panes I am flooded by green, poured over with Love.

And healed.

It is momentary and to be healed, we are always returning, over and over and over and over to the cross.

So I fold it over and over and over in my hands, the olive wood crucifix my in-laws brought me from Jerusalem, until it splinters my fingers and makes them bleed.  

This is healing… turning the cross over and over in the heart, in the mind, like I do in the hand, letting it splinter straight through and draw blood and breath and bring me back to life.

{Read part 2 of this post, here: Over and over... still. Why go back to the old neighborhood?

Linking to: Imperfect Prose on Thursdays at Emily's place.




Might you also consider pre-ordering Emily's book for those with loved ones struggling through an eating disorder, and spread love for the broken and hurting? Consider it for your church or school library, perhaps? 



 

23 comments:

  1. Oh dear one, this is sacred and I love these words for their honesty, "and my soul screams silently all the while". Yes, I know this scream.
    And I know the broken and the bleeding and turning the hope over and over.
    Thank you for writing, I am brought to hope and brought to now.
    <3

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  2. Okay, I've been away from blog world for a while, and didn't realize you'd changed the name of your place. I was going to yell at you because I love, love, love your sense of whimsy--it's so YOU! I just read a book by a man named Bob Goff who is a HUGE fan of whimsy, and as I read I kept thinking about you!

    But then.

    I read the content of your post, and I my heart hurt. I know this battle--it's why I named my blog what I did. My blog is my place where I battle against the twin brothers as well.

    Thanks be to God for the cross. And for knowing what Sylvia could not find.

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  3. turning the cross over and over again in our hearts...yes...and those glimpses of creations beauty out the windows...prayers of continued healing to you...

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  4. Mothering is hard. No One told us it would be this hard. It takes much and gives much. Keep looking to the cross, bc your right unlike Sylvia you are doing what she didn't; loosening the grip with Christ.

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  5. Yes, and thank you. Thanks for coming by. 

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  6. Over and over we return for healing. Thanks for stopping in. 

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  7. This is beautiful. This is real. And in your honesty, you are healing. 

    Have you read "My Name is Hope" by John Mark Comer? It's a fantastic book on anxiety, depression, and Jesus. 

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  8. Thanks, Caitlin. I haven't read it. Perhaps I'll check it out when things slow a bit. I don't generally struggle deeply with these issues now but I have, and they rear their ugly head from time to time. Sharing those moments here seems to bridge the gap and they pass quickly. Grateful for this, for knowing the way to combat the lies. :) Appreciate you stopping by!  

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  9. That makes sense. Hang in there. You have community and you are not alone!

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  10. You describe the torment so well... This resonated with where I have been, and where I sometimes am.
    This was really beautiful and powerful.
    Cheering you on in the hanging on.
    P.s. You really are a writer...

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  11. Blog under construct and working with Disqus...comments are currently going missing. Stop...thief! {I'm investigating to the best of my poor techie abilities}. 

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  12. I loved this.  Thank you for posting and sharing your heart.  Your words could have been my words today as I took care of 3 little ones and am growing one in my belly.  Reading your words reminds me that I am not alone in this thing we call motherhood and even through it all it is what God wants for us.   His will for our lives.

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  13. oh cara, it is achingly hard, isn't it? lifting up prayer for wellness and shalom. thank you for pointing me to the cross and the One who rose from it. xo

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  14. This is exquisitely beautiful. Thank you for your honesty and your artistry. So many share this particular journey with  you - and these words offer hope and shared struggle...which, paradoxically, are often the very same thing.

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  15. Beautiful.  Your pain and struggle causing you to cling to the cross, so vital for us all.

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  16. Vital indeed. Thanks for stopping in here and for your words. 

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  17. Hope and shared struggle... yes, yes, so often the same. It is the cry of my heart these days that we are free to tell our truths that we can see Christ healing the wounds of one another, be Him to those who don't know the hope. It creates amazing transformation for me, to be sure. Thanks so much for coming by. 

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  18. Thank you for prayer and for shalom. Grateful that something so mighty is within our grasp. It is the returning to it again and again that brings us where He wants us, isn't it? Thanks, friend. 

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  19. Oh grace and peace to you, Kris. How our hearts split open with love for the little ones in our care and too, how weak the flesh to always manage all the demands with grace. That we would parent more like He does, to our tender hearts, to theirs. Thanks for the reminder. It is a call indeed, above so many other things that complete for time and are so much less precious. 

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  20. Tara_pohlkottepressMay 31, 2012 at 2:31 PM

    "and my soul screams silently all the while".  this bleeding into the holy. this ordained ordinary... it can be hard. it IS hard. but these words? they are beautiful.

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  21. Thank you, friend. Bleeding into the holy... I like that. 

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  22. this is exquisite and painful. and i relate, so, so much. sometimes i feel like i'm going crazy too. i love sylvia plath's "the bell jar." and i understand. you are not alone, cara. and i'm praying for you. love you.

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Your comments are such an encouragement. Thank you for sharing your valuable words.