Sometimes No Rest Is Just What The Weary Need

Blogging at 4:30 AM is never a good idea. It's harder to write late at night because it takes like, five tries to spell things correctly...even things that I totally know how to spell...either my brain can't spell, or my fingers can't type, or both. It almost always also results in run-on, rambling sentences. I know that. I still do it. I feel inspired more often late at night, and that's just the way it is. So if this post stinks or makes little sense, the early hour is an easy scapegoat. And if it sounds like the random, fragmented ramblings of a sleep-deprived coffee junkie who is young enough to not really know what she's talking about anyways, well, that's just par for the course. 

Disclaimer presented and fair warning given, let's get down to business.

Something has become a nasty habit of mine. It's been a habit for a long while, but I didn't realize it until just tonight. Or, if I did realize it earlier, it was only by my subconscious mind, which the rest of my mind pretty much ignores, so it doesn't really count.

When I do something wrong, when I sin against a person, I don't find it all that difficult to apologize to them and tell them that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did, will you forgive me? Thanks. Friends again? Sweet. And then all is right with the world. Except it's not. Something is still pending; business is not finished. 

I haven't apologized to God.

I really don't know why, but I have a hard time approaching the throne of grace and asking for forgiveness from my Father, even though I know that I will be forgiven, that God does not hold grudges. I know He wants me to come to Him, to acknowledge my wrong and let Him wipe the slate clean.

But I don't, much too often. I'm nervous to talk to God when I feel unclean, sinful. I know He feels my sin more acutely than I ever could, that it grieves Him more deeply than I could ever know or understand. And for that reason, many times I'm too ashamed to broach the subject with Him. Instead, I just keep my distance, and hope it goes away on its own.

But leaving that business pending, leaving it unfinished like that, doesn't help anything. It makes everything worse, as a matter of fact. It eats at me, slowly, like an internal leprosy, slowly devouring everything that brings me joy.

The longer I go with un-dealt-with sin in my life, the more I drift from where I should be, and the more miserable my life becomes. And then I become calloused; even as I continue sinning, I hardly even feel it anymore, like the frog in the hot water, it gets warmer and warmer until I'm boiling alive and I don't even realize. The leprosy inside me is raging unchecked, and I can feel the despondency, but no longer understand the source.

I avoid my Bible like the plague, praying doesn't happen, or if it does, it's not sincere, and I even avoid my Christian music, opting instead for something that I hope will lift my spirits, but never really does. Something is missing, something big, and in the back of my mind I know what it is, but something is still keeping me from returning, from believing myself to be the prodigal son, coming home after so long a drought of love and joy. Pride has so many faces, so many manifestations. 

But our Father is nothing if not merciful, and He does not leave us to ourselves! He finds us wherever we are, whatever predicament in which we found ourselves, He comes to us, makes us realize where we are, how far we've strayed. And after that realization has set in, and we cry out for help, He delights in pulling us out of our self-dug pit, making us look beautiful again, and returning us to the fold. Starting fresh, like it never

happened. Forgiveness, true and pure.

Sometimes he does this late at night, say, 4:30 AM. Sometimes he makes it so we can't sleep...can't sleep...can't sleep...for hours and hours. Until we realize that sleep isn't going to happen and we get up and make coffee. And then we get the idea that maybe, just maybe, since it's so late at night, nobody will notice if we read our Bible, just a little. Maybe now, it'll be okay, nobody will see the sinful soul inside that becomes hideously apparent in the undefiled light of those sacred pages.

And so, the redemptive process begins, and it doesn't take long before the soul has been convicted and is crying out to its Creator, as it should've done long ago. And, as you knew would be the case way back in the beginning, the Father stands close by, ready, oh so ready, to forgive and forget. Not only removing the ugly, sinful waste that has been collecting like a slimy residue on your soul, but also restoring all the wonderful gifts that you had all but forgotten, like peace and rest for the weary soul, and oh, the joy that you'd forgotten about! All restored, fully, without reservation.

The transformation, sudden and complete, almost makes you sob with relief, almost makes you physically fold in half at the reprieve from the weight gone, the water once boiling, now fresh and cool and clean, the leprosy vanished and the damage repaired from one moment to the next. It feels too good to be true, too clean to be real, too fresh for the mileage that you know lies behind you.

But that's our Father; that's who He is, what He loves to do for us. It's amazing, it's something that nobody deserves, but everybody is invited to partake. Wherever you are, whatever desert you are walking through, however long it's been, your Creator stands ready and willing to relieve you of your burden and let you experience life beautifully, abundantly, full and free.

And now it's 6:00 AM… when I was supposed to wake up. But somewhere along the way whatever fatigue I felt dissolved away, and even though I feel awake and fresh right now, I suppose I'm actually just riding an adrenaline rush and it probably won't be long before the hours catch up with me. But after the night I've had, I don't suppose sleep was on the menu anyway. Not that I mind… I feel better than I have in far too long, and it has nothing to do with sleep. :)

Red Rover, Red Rover, Send Childhood Right Over

When I look back to my childhood years, I have very fond memories. I know there are many people who cannot say the same, and for that reason I try to remind myself often to be thankful for what I had. Thankful that peering back into the past and reminiscing about years gone by automatically brings a wistful smile to my face. Looking back and seeing happy times, laughter, love and innocence is nothing less than a luxury. I didn't always know that, couldn't fully appreciate what I'd had until I was able to look back in retrospect. And, I'm ashamed to say, sometimes I still forget.

When I hear about childhoods that have not been like mine, childhoods where sadness was commonplace and innocence was short-lived or nonexistent, it makes me so very sad. Of all times, of all stages of life, childhood should be happy and innocent, a place of adventure and discovery and safety and peace.

By American standards, I was not raised in wealth. I shared a room with at least one sibling (sometimes three) until I was 16 or so. All during my growing up years, we never had cable TV or fancy cars, going out to eat was rare and felt very luxurious, we never went to Disneyland, money was always tight, and my dad supported his ever-growing family on an enlisted man's salary, which, let's be honest, should be much more than it is.

But wealth, real wealth, isn't measured that way. I don't look back and remember all of that. I remember things like, allowance day finding a pile of shiny new pennies carefully poured into my pillow, slowly counting and admiring each and every one. My mom patiently teaching me to fold towels, my small hands trying so very hard to mimic her fluid movements. Getting breakfast in bed on my birthday. Losing a tooth and finding two quarters and a note from the Tooth Fairy under my pillow the next morning. My mom sitting on the couch teaching me how to sound out words from a phonics book. My dad giving my siblings and I under-doggies on the swings as we squealed with delight. The mix of exhilaration and terror when Dad let go of the back of my bike as I tried to ride my first two-wheeler. Making pilgrim outfits while Mom taught us about the first Thanksgiving. Mom's hand folded around my tiny one gripping a pencil as she helped me write my name. All of us kids relaxing in various positions while Dad read aloud from the Book of Virtues before bed.

I could go on forever, and I know my siblings could too. I look back, and I know I was truly wealthy, and so very blessed. God in his goodness gave me so much, things that I am still realizing, and things that I'm sure I will never realize. My childhood was a rich one, and often I wish to be that little girl again.

I used to think of childhood me and "grownup" me as two separate individuals, two different entities. I pictured the little girl trapped inside the adult body, the two parts locked in an endless battle for control of the mind that they shared. The girl, though, she would always lose, because she was smaller and weaker. She was shackled to a body that she could not control, bound to a mind that couldn't appreciate the simple things in life or notice the magic in the ordinary.

But I don't think of it that way anymore. I think of it as my adult self, who has a small, wonder-filled voice inside that loves to point out the splendor of the sunset, that encourages the adult to roll down the windows and let the wind play with her hair, that gives "grownup" me permission to stop thinking so much and just enjoy and appreciate and stand rapt in awe.

The older I get, the more I treasure that childlike voice. That little girl knows what's important, what really matters. Money, jobs, schedules, budgets, appointments, future plans...these are what matters to adult me. And, to be fair, all of these have a degree of importance. I'm not saying that the adult priorities do not have their place. Adulthood is necessary, and with it comes responsibility and obligation.

But we must not grow up without the child. We must not leave behind the simple pleasures that were so very important once upon a time. We must not rush into the future at the expense of that tiny voice.

Because without the child, without the ability to see a cell under a microscope and take a moment to simply marvel at the intricacies of it, or see a bird weaving a nest in spring time and stand amazed at the craftsmanship, if we can't see the sunset for the traffic in front of us, or a tiny, perfect snowflake without  a hint of reverence, if we can know anything at all about the human body and not be humbled and astounded at the miracle of it, then I fear we are well and truly lost.

There is, however, a bit of good news. The inner child, true to form, is stubborn, tenacious, and quite unyielding. Holding on to consciousness in a veritable death-grip, it takes a lot of time and effort to get them to go to sleep, and considerably less to rouse them. So if you fear your inner child has fallen asleep, give them a prod by turning your eyes heavenward, and I believe you'll find that they return, rested, rejuvenated, and ready for magic and play.