When I am alone, I ask Him, "As broken as I feel... am I to be broken further? Am I to the half way point yet, Lord? Where now I can look forward to the mend, the healing, the road back to normal... or is there more to endure?" In my mind, I am thinking: "I can't take much more of this. I want normal. I want sane. I want reliable earth under my feet."
unhurried and calm as the lake on a breeze-less day.
And I remember. I hang on those words for days.
Then He asks:
Then I think of the past summer, some of the conversations Sean and I had...good conversations. I think of Addie's coming and the upheaval, like birthing her opened a dam within me. I think of the mourning now behind me, the flame of healing lit within me and the resolution that I would call things as they were and daily, daily, daily begin my day with praising Him. And I do.
Meanwhile, He carves on. Hands sure and steady and intentional with His sharp tools.
"Probably not," I answer, sweeping the old "normal" off the list of hopefuls in my mind.
"I just want to know... You won't leave me this way, right? I mean.... whatever it is that You are doing in me, this making me absurdly emotional and soft and pliable and extremely mush-like... I'm not going to stay half-baked or half-done forever, am I?"
I look it up. Philippians 1:6. And then I look up "perform" in the concordance and find:
Perform: from the Greek word epiteleo:
1) to bring to an end, accomplish, perfect, execute, complete
a) to take upon one's self
"So I won't be broken forever, lonely forever - like winter will never end and I hate the dark and cold and the silence of not having community around us, all this won't be blaring in my ears forever, sort of broken?" I'm sobbing now. Really. This is lousy. I hate crying. I'm a grown woman, I should have stopped crying when I was...like ten, right? Bleh.
He whispers. I promise He does. In our cries of desperation, He'll never stand cold and silent. To my brokenness, He speaks completeness. And I am realizing that what I call broken, He sees as opportunity. What I see as bare and open and raw, He sees as a bit of brown earth and plugs in something to grow.His answer:
I look that one up to. Colosians 2:10 and then because I'm a nerd, I look up the Greek and hang.on.every.word for *complete*. Everything I am so not feeling right now. All the questions I've been asking, I'm sure I've been to God like the four year old who asks "why" to everything but He silences me, stills my soul on the word *complete*:
Before me I read, from the Greek word pleroo:
1) to make full, to fill up, i.e. to fill to the full
a) to cause to abound, to furnish or supply liberally
1) I abound, I am liberally supplied
2) to render full, i.e. to complete
a) to fill to the top: so that nothing shall be wanting to full measure, fill to the brim
b) to consummate: a number
1) to make complete in every particular, to render perfect
2) to carry through to the end, to accomplish, carry out, (some undertaking)
c) to carry into effect, bring to realisation, realise
1) of matters of duty: to perform, execute
2) of sayings, promises, prophecies, to bring to pass, ratify, accomplish
3) to fulfil, i.e. to cause God's will (as made known in the law) to be obeyed as it should be, and God's promises (given through the prophets) to receive fulfilment
Really, it is a beautiful promise. For you and for me. Where I lack, He shores me up, when I'm dry and pasty and empty, He fills me to overflowing, and so I'm blaming all these extra emotional, can't watch/hear/talk about a news story or see a refugee or think the word "orphan" or hear ugliness spoken in haste, or hear of another family breaking apart without BAWLING. Yes, I blame this on Him. I do. And I thank Him. Because I was a pretty stoic woman back in my "normal" and now I *think* I feel what He feels and my kids are just going to have to get used to a blubbering mama. :)~ It is Valentines morning. The kids are giggly and scurrying and whispery and the empty pink tissue box that steps in as our valentine mail box is plopped on the breakfast table, brimming with papers cut and pasted and envelopes licked in shades of red and pink. The papa is the mailman and our kids gush and giggle over the mail from each other. He slides his hand, palm down, in front of me, looks me in the eyes and kisses me. Underneath his hand is a wood pendant, a flower missing one petal carved beautiful and smooth. Eyes full of life, I read his inscription on the back. "To Hannah: that you may always know summer and never winter. Love, Sean."