Tears and Dusty Ground

He withdrew about a stone's throw beyond them, 

knelt down, and prayed...Being in anguish, 

he prayed he prayed more earnestly...

Luke 22:41,44

.     .     .     .     .

I have to admit, for a while, Life in this Land was pretty good. There is growth. Actual new, greeny things growing out of the dust. Not at all expected or what was envisioned. But there is growth and I am content to be grateful here. To learn. To hope and find joy. To hunt for treasure and discover the good in the unexpected. The breeze blows and reminds that there is more to this life, One who controls every big and unseen thing. And He sees me. For a while, it felt normal.

I get dressed and make coffee. Already, before the sleep is cleared from my head, my shoulders can feel the weight of it all. This place. This life so unexpected and I'm already fighting. I haven't even had breakfast. 

I know the right questions and the right answers (God is good. There is a plan…)but I haven't the energy to ask them today. Instead the questions echoing through the back of my mind, growing stronger and stronger, are the ones I need to ask. I can't shut them up today.

I just don't understand. I don't understand. GOD, I don't get it.

Visitors have come before. These women traveling, waiting, and hoping. We've pulled our bootstraps up together -- in laughter and in tears. I've seen them making the long walk in the distance and welcomed them in. No one wishes to be here, but I know the value of a friendly face. Comfort to the soul. Rest for the weary. I hear stories of trials and struggle. How they found themselves among the dust and cracked ground. I can see the sorrow, the defeat, and the will to carry on etched on their brows. And I cry with them. 

And for a time, selfishly, I find comfort in the fact that I'm not alone here. Relief. Weight  lifted. There are others. I am glad for a moment, thankful, and ashamed to find even small joy in another's sorrow. 

Two good friends who have been fighting to get pregnant have finally succeeded. When I say fighting I mean blood sweat and tears fighting. After months of questions and doubts and fears and struggling and tears…"yes" has answered from the stick and surprised them.

And while I am excited and rejoicing in celebration with them from afar…I want to rip out my own broken heart just so it will stop aching. I want to dig my own small fingers deep into my chest, wrap my weak hand around that beating muscle, that counts the breaths and seconds and hours and won't quit, and yank it out. Yes, if that's what it takes to make this feeling go away. It won't stop and I just need a break, a moment of time frozen so I can breath deep and fill my lungs without my bruised heart cutting it short.

We visit. Wonderful...for a time. And they move on. To the land beyond. The fertile ground just teeming and swelling with life. These visitors smile with apologies. They hug and comfort and with heads held high in hope, they walk on. They move forward. I watch them go. Walking, dancing ahead, always ahead. And I stay. Alone. 

I was asking, "Do You even hear me?" But I know You do. You and I, we've worked through this. Your faithfulness, love for me. I know You are real. I know You see me and remember me. I know these things. Which makes it all the more painful because You see, and hear, and listen and hold every tear and yet. And yet…nothing. The God of the universe, Who created everything out of nothing, Who keeps the earth spinning and the sun burning in the great vast infinite space, sees me. And knows me and chooses to do nothing. I am past the point of wondering where You are; I know where You are. I just don't understand. What is the point of all of this?

When they look back, I wave. I smile because I know this is good. I am witness to miracles. The gift of seeing sorrow turn to joy is never lost on me. 

And I know they have not left unmarked. Scars run deep on their hearts and the world is never the same. I know this. 

My heart breaks. I can feel it splitting right through the middle. What more can I do, but hang my head and return to the dust? Search until hands are caked in dirt, for the small, simple, unexpected treasures buried deep here? I return to the dry ground, bend my knees and dig in deep. Wind-chaffed and spent. I am exhausted.  

How many times have I been hostess to other visitors? I lost count years ago. How many times have I been patiently waiting with others yet been passed over? As if there is a line. And in my worst moments I dare to ask, what have they got that I don't? Why do I have to wait longer and longer still? I bide my time and stay busy and still, still...

I am the last. The very last and I am sobbing in the dirt, dry ground soaking up the puddle of tears. I'm alone again. And now I'm muddy. I look around, "Is this even real?" Still, seven years come and gone, and I'm asking. This is real. And I'm living it.

I keep asking, "How do I even do this, live like this?" expecting an answer from a seasoned resident. But wait…I'm the only one living here! I am beginning to think I'm not merely visiting. Am I to make my home here? 

I sigh loud and long. Hands on hips and look over the horizon. I so did not want to stay here. A field trip gone wrong. Not in my wildest nightmares would I have thought I will be here still. I do not know of one other person in my life who has waited like I and continues to wait. Even those who visit now have children in tow.

Like a child screaming and in tantrum, I continue to ask why. Defiant and arrogant. Yet, I know I'm not the only one. (I know there are others. I do. I so long for a female partner in this, a childless kindred soul who understands through and through. And if you are here with me, maybe we are just a hill apart in this desert land?) And I can forgive myself of these few moments of weakness. Because I know He already knows what I'm thinking, feeling. I might as well be truthful and say it out loud so we can move on.

So I kneel and beg and plead and sob and what more can I do? 

I raise my hands and give thanks. Give thanks for the small bit of moisture, my own salty tears, to water the ground. I raise my hands because I know in this very spot there will be something good that grows; out of this puddle. I raise my hands because it's all I can do now -- now that the heaving has stopped. I raise my hands and surrender all I have because, like it or not, I'm here. I raise my hands because, after everything and every tear, I chose to believe that there is good, there is a plan, there is joy to be found. And I know this is not the end. There is more.

It's what I've been saying, isn't it? Somewhere. Is there joy to be had here? I need a shovel to dig for treasure, deep beneath this dry, dusty dirt. Is it even there?

I raise my hands and give thanks for the unexpected.  Thanks for grace enough to brave the unexpected, because what is there in this world that is completely expected?  

And He knew. Jesus knew this world, this unexpected place. He lived it. And on bended knee, tears falling fast, hard; heaving and weary, He raised His hands and gave thanks on dusty ground. Knowing He could no more take us out of this world than He would refuse to die, He surrendered. He prayed that we, His followers, might find joy in tribulation, in spite of tribulation, in the face of the mess of this world. He made His own muddy puddle of tears and I wonder, what grows there?

And I've got to get on with the living. But it hurts more than I can bear. How do I fully live and not rip out my own heart? How did Christ fully die with His? He gave thanks and surrendered. 

The sun rises, the moon glows. The snow melts and the rains are sure to come. Life moves whether I'm ready or not. And I still, after all this hard, heart wrenching living, still I want to live some more. So I raise my hands and give thanks, my whole heart thanking.

The bath fills and steam dances upward. Simple joy.

Shoulders heave with sobs and the good man I don't deserve wipes my tears. Our hard joy

Three heads bowed over breakfast and Bibles. Just plain joy.

And I raise my hands because I know that in the end this is not my home.