“Here is the first fact
of the history of spring: you cannot
remember it as you go about
your chores in the winter cold,
the world and its informing
life dead in your heart,
or imagine it as it will be
when it comes fully into living
presence in light and warmth.”
-excerpt from Poem VI in ‘Sabbaths’ by Wendell Berry
This winter wore out my mind and body
I hadn’t experienced mental and emotional fatigue like this in years past. Before, when I’d walked through The Valley of Heartbreak, I'd felt assured of some greater work God was doing in my life. I had been in pain, yes, but there was a deep-down assurance that Jesus was present and actively redeeming things for my future even when the circumstances were excruciating.
This past winter wasn’t like that.
I had private soul-wrestlings. Questions. Tears. Doubts. There were many days that I was too numb to feel anything and just went through the motions necessary to make it to bedtime. The skies turned gray and my stamina turned sickly brown; withering like grass without the sun. I barely read my Bible because who wants to read about how God never forsakes his people when you’re the loneliest you’ve ever been?
Growing up in the faith community I did, I was always given a bird’s eye view of the suffering people in the Bible endured.
“Sarai was barren for decades, but eventually Isaac was born!”
“Hagar was abused, but God met her in the wilderness!”
“The woman bled for 12 years, but touched Jesus and was immediately healed!”
Right now I don’t need stories of the unexpected holy meetings, the moment of redemption, the sudden healing. I want to hear about Sarai holding her breath in anticipation every month until she was forced to let it out in muffled wails when the bleeding inevitably started. Did Abram comfort her the first few times or let her cry alone, hiding in her tent, because he didn’t know what else he could possibly say to help?
I want to hear what Hagar thought after she’d borne the son her mistress wanted and was then cast out into the wilderness with the same child. I want to hear how she was forced to watch the son the Lord had foretold she’d have waste away to the point of death. Did her throat burn when she wept for him? Did she staple her hands to her ears, attempting to block out his final cries as she turned away from his limp body? What was it like to be helpless to save the only family she had left?
I want to hear about the twelve years of bleeding the woman who touched the hem of Jesus’ garment lived before she met him. Under the Law, she was labeled ‘unclean’ and couldn’t worship or gather in the temple. She was an outcast. A loner. A woman unfit for honor or dignity. Was she numb to disappointment by then? Or did she still have enough hope left to torture her when she woke up to fresh crimson spots in her bedding every morning?
I know God intervened in the lives of these women. I know the story doesn’t end with them in agony. But for most of my life I’ve been taught to move so quickly to the part where we rejoice over what God did that I don’t know how to slow down and mourn the brokenness that led to someone needing healing in the first place.
This winter has been one of private grieving. I’ve prayed for the redemption I was promised and it hasn’t happened yet. I’ve endured suffering at the hands of others and been cast out. I’ve asked for the good things the Scriptures tell us to petition God for and been denied. And I lament.
Spring is coming
And as Wendell said: I can’t remember it. I workout for 30 minutes a day. I listen to the Bible wearing headphone because it feels easier than reading it for some reason. I walk my dog. I order groceries and keep the laundry going. I sat down to write what you’re reading now even though it was the last thing I felt like doing. I’m “doing my chores in the winter cold” and redemption spring is something I can’t recall. But I keep going. One minute, one inch, one hour, one day at a time.
My son asked me one day in January, “What’s your favorite thing about yourself?” I think for a moment and reply:
“My favorite thing about myself is that I don’t give up.”
“Like the flowers, I too
must live on without condition
expecting nothing but to be
present in the passing day,
to the limit of breath living
as I humanly must and may.”
-excerpt from Poem VI in ‘Sabbaths’ by Wendell Berry
Where I live, the skies stay thick with clouds for weeks in late winter. I know the days are lengthening, but because we don’t get to see a sunrise or a sunset, there’s no visual evidence for it. This happens every year spring approaches. The sun starts to linger on the horizon, the days are brighter (or they would be if the clouds didn’t smother the light out of every day).
But the other day the planet tilted. The cloud-curtain was torn and the sun flung open her arms to a blue embrace. It didn’t register in my brain until it was time for golden hour—until I realized we were actually getting a golden hour. I can’t remember if it happened while I was cleaning the kitchen after supper or taking Billie out for one last walk. I just recall thinking, “Wow, it’s bright outside.” I checked the time. 7:30pm. A familiar ache made up of grief, longing and relief bloomed in my chest.
The days are getting lighter. Even when I forgot they would.
ps. I’m reading ‘Even If He Doesn’t’ by
and this new book is healing wounds in my soul I didn’t even know how to name.I’ve been stuck and unable to write due to suffering in my life and her book has helped crack open my creative door again. The circumstances in my life haven’t changed—many of which I could file under, “Even Though He Hasn’t”—but I don’t feel like I have to stifle the pain of them anymore. I have room to breathe again.
Kristen’s tender and tenacious approach shifting our approach to the theology surrounding suffering is something my heart deeply needed and maybe yours does too.
❤️❤️❤️
I can’t write all the things my heart wants to say. I’m not sure there are words in our language that could communicate it. But please just know that every word of this post hit me like an exploding shard of glass. I know this grief with God. I know this feeling of abandonment and the fear of hoping again. Thank you, always, for your words, Breanne.
I’m hesitant to share this because I don’t want to come across as though I’m offering some sort of trite “solution,” (I promise I’m not) but if you’re finding solace in Kristen’s book (which I loved), I wanted to share that Pete Greig’s book, God on Mute, was a similar light in my darkness. I found myself reading it during Lent three years ago, and it was one of the most powerful things to pull me out of the depths. If you feel led to pick up another book, I can’t recommend it enough. Bless you, girl. I pray for peace to fall on you like rain. ♥️