Mar 5, 2011
In the first few months I trashed the idea of ever standing before a group and speaking about the things of God. I still believed, and like Simon Peter, I confessed there was no other place I would go because it is the Lord, alone, who has the words of Eternal life.
I just didn’t feel like I had anything left to say. I felt that even though I knew Jesus to be the Christ, the Son of the Living God, I no longer knew, beyond salvation, what to expect from Him.
And at the time, I reasoned He probably didn’t need me in the shape I was in to represent Him.
A few friends of mine lovingly and perhaps courageously took the time to “remind me of who I was.”
I listened. And that’s about it. I heard the words. I appreciated the love.
But all I felt I had to offer anyone was hurt, bewilderment and lots of deep and dark emotions.
What I knew for sure though was whether God ever did another thing for me, He had made a way for Andrew, for me and for anyone else who believed and confessed Christ as Lord, to live with Him eternally.
And that was enough.
That was enough for me.
I found myself for the first time in many years relieved of the burden of trying to have any answers.
It became okay with me to not know.
That was huge for me. I’m the thinker. The one who has the need to understand.
The one who looks for symbolism and deeper insight.
Once, a few years ago, my husband and I went for a walk through our neighborhood.
We walked in silence for a bit until I said, “Sometimes I wish I could take my brain out of my head for awhile and get a rest from all my thinking.”
My husband walked on in silence.
I asked, “Do you know what I mean?”
“No,” he responded.
Perplexed, I questioned, “You don’t ever get exhausted with your own thoughts?”
"No. I'm not a thinker."
"You're not a thinker? You don't think?" What do you do?"
He replied, “I be.”
In struggling with the loss of Andrew, for the first time in my life I had a taste of what it felt like to simply “be.” I no longer needed to have all the answers.
I relinquished that need.
And as I ran at sunset and God and I moved around one another under painted skies, I just was.
I just was there.
And so was He.
(to be continued...maybe)