I am in limbo.
It’s the nicest kind of limbo, suspended in a sort of spiritual quagmire, but without the fruitless wresting for escape. There’s a voice, somewhere in a muted distance, sometimes ragged and forceful, that shouts that I should impose upon myself some sort of disciplined effort of escape. But the voice has no authority, no teeth. I hear it, but pleasantly, blurred behind all my other thoughts. Instinctively, I know that to struggle here would be to sink deeper. I know that to fret against this place, to wage war against this purgatory, will only further entrap me.
So I wait. Purposefully at peace.
It is as though my spirit knows to bide its time here, as though I am at a train station, simply waiting for the right one.
I know I have been missing from the front lines. Those whom my life is built around and interdependent with—I wonder what they think. Do I appear to be lazily sitting on the bench? Do they have any revelation of the divine purpose for my blurred state? Is there still honor in their hearts toward me, or is my inability to move potently in their midst planting doubt among the harvest?
I fret in the mystery of all that is unspoken towards me.
I worry that my process would damage others. I worry that my season in this place will disqualify me to be among all those I long for and love. Those who will ultimately be present for my resurrection—do they have the patience to persist here in the ninth hour, in the moment when I appear to be shown a fraud?
Yet I see that my flesh assigns my deepest-feared judgments to the voices of those I love. I walk around scourged with what I believed they must be thinking: You’re a fraud! You have disappointed me! You have been found wanting! We can do this without you!
My broken places apply masks to their faces and permit such intimate upheaval—for the deepest damage in me is not that they would say this. That, I could bear. But that these things might possibly exist in their hearts—my craved home—and poison my place there brings me to undoing. In some moments, I am insecure—wishing I could reach out for encouragement without further incriminating myself.
Yet all those thoughts I must lay aside, as dirty laundry, unfit for what is ahead. I see new robes, in rich colors, folded and neatly pressed—waiting for the old to finish and fall away.
I feel like He put me to sleep, gently and with great purpose, that I be honored and made ready for the road ahead. I am always as faithful as I know how to be—I get this from my Father, who is supremely faithful and knows I crave nothing more than to be potent. In the haze of momentary impotence, new authorities were laid up within me for discovery—and for mastery. Even now, as I feel things shifting—however agonizingly slow—my heart leaps to watch His fingerprints sink deep upon my clay. I wish He would rush along and finish quickly, to preserve my reputation. But it seems the pace of this process is as important as the work itself.
For indeed, the beautiful work of the Lord is often done in our humblest places. For me, one who so endeavors for consistency and excellence—to be rendered here in the heat, to feel off my game, apart from myself—is how I know He’s working in my depths. He is in my core, restructuring, refining, and I have been feeling as though I am under anesthesia.
I feel it lifting now, bit by agonizing little bit, as might the tingling possibilities in the fingertips of a quadriplegic. I realize how very much I have missed myself. I am thankful for the former struggles that taught me to trust—Him, and you—relentlessly. Otherwise I might have denied this season and cheated the body of the ongoing fullness of His indwelling of me. All that feels lost or missing must have been worthy price for all that is coming newly awake…