The thought drifts into my mind… I haven’t spent much time with God lately. None, really, save the odd one-line prayer for something I need. I know it’s where I need to be: wrapped up in my Creator, letting him carry the burden of my worries so I can focus on what’s real and purposeful in life, so I can hear his voice, so I can be soothed at the soul level. So why is it so hard?
I’ve lived my life below the surface, quietly contemplating, a glass wall between me and the outside world. Suddenly it’s like I’ve stepped outside, and the wall is still there, but I’m on the outside looking in – or I would, if it weren’t one-way glass. All those deep thoughts, that place where the spirit lives and the subconscious swirls through a mist of symbols and memories, have become a mystery to me. I am cut off from myself, and so I feel cut off from God. I sense his presence, but have no means with which to connect on a conscious level.
There’s been so much going on, perhaps I’ve just put it all on hold too long and forgotten how to pick it up again. Six weeks of nannying in the most crazy intense job you could imagine – the level of disorganisation of the family, the sheer number of activities the two older children had between them, meant there was no time to live within myself. I had to be fully in the moment, keeping track of a hundred little details all at once.
Then there was the wedding, my sister’s wedding, where I was matron of honour and there were things to do and the big day came and in the midst of so much going on, my step-dad was in a horrific car crash that he was lucky to survive and he’s going to be alright but it’s left us all shaken. We all had to put that on the shelf for the day, just get through the wedding and cope with so much emotion when it was all over.
That same night we wondered if our baby was coming early; and the next night, too, and there were hospital visits and tests and last-minute dashes to the shops to get a few more things for the hospital bag just in case. All was declared to be as it should, and we went home, and yesterday I relaxed for the first time in nearly two months. I opened my drawer to find a book, and there was The Book, and I looked at it, and it stayed there. I know I should read it, but what if it’s like so many other times when I read it and the words don’t seem to make sense? What if it doesn’t speak to me? Is there value in simply reading, if there’s no understanding, no gleaning of wisdom, no message to take from it?
The Message. That’s what it’s called, this particular translation. I enjoy the modern language that lays things clearer, that embellishes for the sake of understanding, that carries the message deep without first needing to translate from outdated phrases. And it occurs to me that I’ll never know if it’ll be worthwhile if I don’t at least pick it up and read it and find out. And that’s not so hard – so long as I can sink a little further back into myself, where I can think and respond, where my heart feels and my spirit is restless and my mind is unraveling great mysteries.
Here, writing this, I start that process of reclaiming myself…