Isolation appears to be special order of this season in my life, and, quite strangely, also in the lives of a treasured handful privy to my inner workings. God is so good, even in those challenging, wounding, flesh-piercing seasons. In the midst of my isolation, He’s crocheted a tender shawl of understanding by connecting my life to others sharing this uncertain walk. I have an inkling that the fragile state in which I currently find myself is a condition of humanity rather than some spiritual malady or emotional dysfunction, though the two tail-enders there may stoke the fires.
Though there are several varieties of isolation, my insular peculiarity comes with more than one piece of luggage. It comes with standard and sensible “reality” bag, which, in my estimation must either be navy blue, black or brown (and most certainly solid rather than patterned). This bag beckons that each item be picked up, seen, handled, and labeled “it is what it is.” Simple. Factual. Practical. Items in this bag, though having existence, carry no weight. This bag brings the comfort of order without expectation. Easy on the eyes like a nice, clean, grammatically precise outline.
I’m a bit too tired to go through the others and don’t want this post to live in the draft area, so I will add simply that the other bags contain the things that I wish to be or already am (but have not yet become comfortable sharing the vulnerability with others) and those things that have been assigned to me (and I am accountable for accepting that) which must be shed. I think the bags I truly love are the red faux crocodile (a very roomy bag containing many unexpected but lovely things) and the black & white polka dot bag (this bag is the me parts that show whether I’m aware of it or not b/c the polka dots are just an innate part of who I am.)
Many days, I cleverly arrange the bags as a sort of fortress to keep out — everyone — whether that is the true intent or no. And my fortress-building techniques are so honed. In all of my years honing that end of the skill, I neglected the skill of dismantling what has come to keep me in more often than keeping others out. But there is hope — great, palpable, thick and juicy like an aromatic steak kind of hope — it’s multi-sensory. I’m learning that I have to trust where I know I need to be and *let* God choose the pathway rather than insisting on the clearest, shortest, most precise, eminently sensible plan. I holler, wince, and back away from the “creative path” He chooses like a cat backs away from any guidance when placed on a leash.
In what is really a rather immature fashion, my pride spun the idea as God needing to work on me as if, like many small children believe, I were the center of my universe. Of course, I know rationally that I’m not, but I wonder if my behavior patterns have gotten that message yet. (no) A friend at church pointed out with a Cheshire cat grin and sweeping arm movements how exciting it is that God let me see the straight path and then called me back to what I’d referred to as “the brambly places” where I was most needed. Ouch. And yes!
Don’t you just love when God completely picks you up, turns you to look down the road from a different angle and the pictorial perception radically alters?! I just love how He does that. Sorrow to joy, because purpose comes from that pain. Perfected in weakness. Just love it.
