A Sacred Night


The full-text posts on this blog over the past few months seem to be few and far between.  Sometimes I find myself feeling guilty for this.  I wonder–didn’t I used to write?  Wasn’t I more committed?  Shouldn’t this mean more to me than I show?  When I made this blog, I purposefully had one rule: honesty.  I’ve followed that rule in ways that surprise me, when I look back and read over what I’ve written.  And I have most definitely written.  The poems that show up on here from time to time are sometimes all I can manage to scrounge together from the scraps of my life, and that’s okay.

I’ve spent most of this semester doing some form of writing.  For Advanced Comp, I’ve turned in 6 essays, and most of those have had several drafts each.  (The others will be further drafted, revised, and turned in at the completion of the semester.)  That is on top of the occasional in-class writing quiz he sometimes surprises us with.  In Fiction Writing, on top of the ten pages of writing I’ve turned in each week (and will continue to do until the end of the semester), I’ve also turned in 4 short stories that were each seven pages or more.  I’ve written notes to a group of friends and sent them mail on an almost weekly basis, and I’ve written letters to friends further away too.

It would seem as if, while there is obviously no shortage of my words, this blog seems to only get the leftovers, the remnants.  But I don’t think that is true.  I write not only when I need to but also how I need to.  Sometimes that means loving others by holing up in my room and scribbling and coloring away during a Netflix binge in order to bring a smile or two to friends the next week.  Sometimes it means writing long letters that still have not been delivered (or even sent) because just the writing has been, for the moment, therapy enough.  And sometimes, it means heaving out a mess of half-rhymes and frustrated lines here, because I have nowhere else and no other way to convey the agony or ecstasy of it all.

Exponentially fewer are the times that I ever discuss my speaking.  I don’t mean to crowds or in public, I just mean talking in general.  It’s not something I do.  Opening my mouth and forming words actually takes a certain level of energy for me, and it’s not one I always have.  My roommates have learned this and accept it.  (I think my family still has a ways to go, not counting my brother.  He’s practically my twin.)  Some of my other friends and acquaintances have some sort of understanding of this too.  So when I talked with three people last night, it was kind of a big deal.  Not only that, but my own mouth gave rise to the ensuing tangle of discussions and rants and admissions.  That doesn’t happen.  Ever.

What it resulted in was several honest and sincere dialogues that culminated into a moment of overwhelming gratitude.  This morning, waking up in a dream-induced adrenaline rush after only three and a half hours of sleep, I can’t properly express my level of…well, what name am I to give this intense fervor coursing through my veins, pumping through my heart, dwelling within my bones?  If I had to pick a color, it would be bold blue.  Yes, that is how I feel right now–a blue so deep and bold that it brings me to my knees. If the darkened hours were a sacred night, then this morning is indeed holy ground, and I am left amazed in the wake of the glory of God.

The metaphor–although it is much more real than a literary device–holds for the semester as well.  I have had to struggle through some serious health challenges this semester.  My isolation was not always chose, but often had more to do with the fact that I was physically incapable of the energy required to be with others.  I had to wade through bouts of PTSD symptoms and a more severe depression than I had seen in a long while.  I had to navigate something I imagine is akin to agoraphobia for most of the semester.  It was not easy, living through these past few months.  It was hard and most times I was empty.  I didn’t think I could live–not really, not in the sense that I knew my heart truly desired. It was too much of a fantasy that would never come to fruition.  Whether or not I am closer to achieving my goals now than I was at the beginning of the semester, I don’t know.

What I do know is this:  Here at the end, where I am so broken and weary and without, God is still here–and so am I.  He has carried me.  He doesn’t need to, but He proves His faithfulness time after time because He knows I need it, that I need Him.  As I meditated this morning on just how present my Savior has been these past few months, even when I could not see or hear or feel Him, I came to this realization:  This is the way it’s supposed to be.  It is good and right for me to come to this place of surrender yet again.  This is not because I think I’m doing God a favor by letting Him command my heart and life.  Instead, it is because He so overwhelms me with His Love, pursues me with His Grace, moves me to such awe of His Glory, that my heart is flooded with thanks and praise, and the language of eucharisteo that my soul seems to speak when my lips and thoughts cannot, to the point that I willingly and gladly give up whatever illusion of control I ever had.

Oh, sweet, sweet surrender…  What grace it is to have been shown any grace at all!  What wonder to gaze a glimpse of Glory as it passes by, shielded in the cleft of a rock, the corner or crevice of a cave!  How marvelous, indeed, it is to journey as the Beloved of the Almighty…  When it is all said and done, God still remains, and so does His Love.  I will put my hope in nothing less.

Beloved

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About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

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