Because I am starting a joint venture blog with my best friend this 2013, Affections of a Natural Fancy, I was in here spiffing up. Soon reading through the ancient posts, the brokenness, the humiliation, the anger all got to me. What gets me most is the faint glimmer of hope. In those days I felt FAITHLESS.
About a year ago, when we were preparing for the move back to HI, and I was trying to sum up those dark years in Washington, I was reading through my journal. At the end of most every desperate entry I was shocked to find an even more desperate and barely legible, hopeless prayer. I thought I hadn't prayed any prayers. I had taken to sobbing and groaning. One night while still in Washington, lying in bed with my husband, I rolled onto my stomach and pulled my legs in tightly underneath me for comfort. My husband says my name and asks, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm praying." He said, "You don't pray!" Disliking the fact he had religiously boxed me in, or OUT for that matter I said, "just not for two years!" and silently breathed a prayer to the one I hoped was there for me.
So this is what I'm thinking: is a prayer ever FAITHLESS? The very act of praying (or groaning) is in its essence an act of hope, even despite the bemoaners lack of faith in the offering or it's destination.
But how did I pull through? Faith? No, I'm not that strong.
The sun kept coming up in the morning and I kept putting myself to back to bed...all day long...until the agony began to lessen, the grief and staggeringly vulnerable feeling began to ease. And...voila! My nervous system was healed. Just kidding. Healing came to me, found me in bed, and slowly (sooo slowly!) continued its good work on me. The truth is: I still require healing...everyday, and if I miss a day or two...ouch! I find I have to recover from nearly every stimulation...I'm still very...DELICATE, and may always be so. Who cares?! I am free from guilt and shame...and finally figured out how to grieve!
About a year ago, when we were preparing for the move back to HI, and I was trying to sum up those dark years in Washington, I was reading through my journal. At the end of most every desperate entry I was shocked to find an even more desperate and barely legible, hopeless prayer. I thought I hadn't prayed any prayers. I had taken to sobbing and groaning. One night while still in Washington, lying in bed with my husband, I rolled onto my stomach and pulled my legs in tightly underneath me for comfort. My husband says my name and asks, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm praying." He said, "You don't pray!" Disliking the fact he had religiously boxed me in, or OUT for that matter I said, "just not for two years!" and silently breathed a prayer to the one I hoped was there for me.
So this is what I'm thinking: is a prayer ever FAITHLESS? The very act of praying (or groaning) is in its essence an act of hope, even despite the bemoaners lack of faith in the offering or it's destination.
But how did I pull through? Faith? No, I'm not that strong.
The sun kept coming up in the morning and I kept putting myself to back to bed...all day long...until the agony began to lessen, the grief and staggeringly vulnerable feeling began to ease. And...voila! My nervous system was healed. Just kidding. Healing came to me, found me in bed, and slowly (sooo slowly!) continued its good work on me. The truth is: I still require healing...everyday, and if I miss a day or two...ouch! I find I have to recover from nearly every stimulation...I'm still very...DELICATE, and may always be so. Who cares?! I am free from guilt and shame...and finally figured out how to grieve!
