the story that must be told
I’m standing in the dark yelling out a line of hope. You will not win, I shout to the thing that has no shape, the thing I grapple to find a name for. I did not ask for this darkness to come. I never imagined I would have to fight so hard for my two feet to stand solid on this ground. Heart fly out from me and find Him. Your two wings come from me, you will remember your way back too. Let your beat turn into a beacon that calls for help. He will come quick and sure and we will be saved, my skin, my heart, my soul.
I hesitate to write so candidly. Hush those dark lines spilling out of you, says a voice from the ghost of past. But I am a truth-teller, an old, dubious tradition, and my words know no other way. I want to twist the dark lines into a glossy version but the harder I fight them, the fewer words come and the more uncomfortable I become. I wonder, will the lines tarnish my skin, or is that just another lie meant to silence me. Follow the lines, I want to say, follow them and find the fulsome hope that follows. A hope stronger than death. A hope that is the key to unlock every single unanswered need no matter how cavernous.
So I continue writing the story of how I expectantly send out my winged heart, bearing honest lines and naked prayers. He sent back the miraculous, as always, but never as I expected it would come. And in each miracle, the darkness is beaten back further and further.
“Our life of faith is uncertain, but we can be expectant of good. Because we belong to God, we can rest in knowing his promises to us are true and he is faithful. It’s not a question of if God is going to show up but how and when…There are no ifs with God. The only ifs relate to us. If we trust him. If we believe him. If we ask him. If we continue to ask him…Because, really, what’s too difficult for God? A virgin giving birth? God himself becoming a man and living among us? Flooding the whole earth, maybe? Or coming for you? Coming to you in your thirst and in your uncertainty? The angel Gabriel said, “For with God nothing will be impossible” (Luke 1:37 WBT). The miraculous is not a strange thing to God. The miraculous is his normal.” [Becoming Myself, by Stasi Eldredge]
I write the dark lines without shame because they press unrelentingly towards a light that will never be extinguished. And the lines become, every single time, the story of redemption.
They are the stones in the desert, piled high in memorial to a God who met me here. Each is a stark truth. I imagine, hope, pray, they will be something for another soul to hold onto in moments—long and lean or short and stabbing—when darkness pulls light just out of reach of grasping fingertips.
Is there a part of your story that you’re afraid to share? If so, why?