I remember staring at
the delicate, white dress hanging from the window of my Mother’s car, as I
revisit my place in the backseat my excitement stirs anew. I was to take
pictures in a white dress with a pink bow, with white gloves and a string of
pearls while holding a pink and white bouquet of plastic roses. She had asked
me what I would like to be in our next photo-shoot and I said a little bride. Being
a photographer, she was always looking for new moments to capture, new ideas to
try and new influences to channel. I’d waited weeks to take the pictures and
the day was finally here!
We pulled into the
parking lot of the studio she worked at, and at the sight of the tan building,
I unfastened my seatbelt. Before she could slow down to cruise the parking lot
I had opened the door and I was being pulled out of my seat by the force of the
motion- I was airborne and there was nothing I could do to stabilize myself. My
heart seemed to shake my body with each tremendous beat as my vision was
blurred by the speed at which I was moving. I could not think. I could not find
the voice to scream. I would be lost to concrete maze and I would never find my
way home-if I survived, that is.
Before I could
complete the thought, a strong hand wrapped around my wrist and pulled me in;
my Mother’s eyes were glowing with rage, and panic and relief. We were both on
edge, sickened by the jolt of adrenaline pulsing through our veins.
We resumed that day
(and my photo-shoot) in silence.
That was a scary day for me. As I got older, I would have
nightmares with the theme of falling and being lost, but the scenario would
often change-I was lost boarding a train to Chicago with my Mom; I was lost in
a crowd at a concert with her; I couldn’t find her in a giant labyrinth of a
grocery store. The fear remained that I, someway, somehow would be falling-and
she would not be there to catch me.
It’s funny because after I got older and she got sick, I was
one of the people that took care of her. I would feed her, administer her
medicines, and check on her many times in the middle of the night. I remember
praying and feeling ill at ease as I watched her chest rise and fall, sucking
in air and pushing out snores that would frighten a grizzly bear. I never
realized that I did those things, not only out of love-but out of the
realization that if I wasn’t there for her now she might not be around for me
later. I remember being so angry in the weeks before she left. I needed winter
boots and she wouldn’t by the pair that I wanted-they were too expensive. I
wanted to take drivers ed and she wouldn’t let me. I wanted to look for a new
place to live and she didn’t seem to care.
“It wasn’t fair!” I mused-seethed, actually. I didn’t know why I was so angry.
Fast forward almost two years and I’m listening to the Mama Mia soundtrack-songs from a movie
that my Mother blatantly ignored every item on my Christmas list to buy me-and
missing her so much that I can hardly breathe. I’m faced with the feeling I’ve
spent so much time denying-that panic that catches in my chest and seizes me,
leaving me unable to laugh or cry or do anything other than wonder how on earth
I will find my way home should I survive the impact and injury of hitting the
ground-and I know that she can’t catch me. She can’t find me. She can’t even
look for me!
It seems like that feeling only comes up when I face
cornerstones-my birthday, learning to drive, graduating high-school, getting my
first job. Her birthday is in a few weeks too-she would have been thirty-six
and let’s not even mention my second
thanksgiving and Christmas without her. It’s like the more I do and accomplish,
the more the gap between my life with her and the life I live now widens, the
more that hysteria seems to grow and at times it feels as though it’s
swallowing me whole. Just like my photo-shoot, everything is bitter sweet to me
(more so the former than the latter). In fact it stems beyond being without my
Mom and into the realization that I am rapidly approaching a place in life
where there will be no one to catch me at
all most times.
And I have to wonder, where is God in this?
Today it hit me that he will be doing the catching from now
on. He’s caught so many times already-most times I haven’t even realized it.
I’ve gotten things as big as scholarships and things as small as a few sweaters
because of his providence. I have an amazing parental unit. His grace and favor
is probably written in invisible ink on my forehead. Psalms 23:4 says that his rod and his staff, they
comfort me. What does that mean? For me the rod and staff represents protection
and discipline, and support. Then I head on over to Psalms 91:4 to find out
that under his wings, I can most definitely take refuge.
God is my secret place, my hiding place. He’s where I laugh,
he’s where I cry. He’s the well that I drink from he is my safety-and when I’m feeling lost he reminds me that he’s my
home.
I know these things, but sometimes it hard to believe in the
sense that as a physical being, I am always looking for a physical refuge, a
physical comfort. But God is always drawing me deeper into what is
spiritual-what transcends the realm I dwell in.
I have to submit and follow him. God is not a man that he should lie,
but my heart (the emotional one) is deceitful above all things. So I’m letting
him be my shield and buckler on a very strict basis for the next few weeks.
I have to remind myself that falling and changing and being
lost are all good things. I have to remind myself of God’s concept of what is good
in contrast to mine. If I never fell I couldn’t ever be caught, if I never
changed I’d still wear diapers, if I was never lost I could not ever be found.
I have to remember that I am writing a story for my King with everyday that I
live, and that I have to keep actively working to make that story a good one,
grammatical errors and all.
I am weak to prove him strong. I am ignorant for the sake of
his wisdom and my righteousness is as filthy rags when I’m faced with his
GLORY. We are the perfect team, and I must do my part and rely on him as
heavily as I possibly can.
I often wonder what things would be like if my life had gone
how it “should” have gone, grow up in one house with only two parents and be
members of the YMCA (I know, my vision of domestic life leaves much to be
desired haha). The truth is, I would most likely feel no different but have
different reasons for feeling that way. I will never be a shiny, poreless,
freshly painted vase-not for as long as I live.
God creates us as who we are, knowing the flaws and faults
that accompany our freewill.
I almost fell out of that car because I chose to open that
car door. I would have probably made that choice regardless of whether or not
we entered on the right or left side of the parking lot, or if we had stopped
and gotten ice-cream along the way. My nature is ingrained.
I’m always making mistakes and falling, I’m always acquiring
more cracks and believe it or not God LIKES
this.
With every crack I accrue, I’m allowing another opening in
myself for his glory to shine through.
Cracked pots water the earth; cracked pots allow God’s light
to filter through.
God’s arms can reach through the chasms of time and space to
catch what no human hand can touch. His eyes see into the hearts of nations.
His heart has more love and good than what I can dare comprehend.
I would say that’s a pretty good compensation.
Jacob, son of Abraham learned to love and rely on God for
himself, apart from the care and guidance of Abraham, unencumbered by Sarah’s words
of wisdom-alone. In the quiescence of night, he struggled to know God instead of merely knowing of him; to cry out for his own blessing
instead of parading around displaying the power of his Father’s prayers-the
catch of his hands, if you will. I think, in a way this is just my struggle, my
night to fight and break through and see God’s face stripped of another veil.
So to my fear of falling I say God, you’re my God! I trust
in you.
