A haven from my unbelief

I've been sitting in front of my computer for an hour or two tonight, staring yet again at a white screen and blinking cursor.  I'm supposed to be writing a 12-18 page essay regarding some aspect of my spiritual experience.

***

Why is it that I'm always called upon to say the most about something when I feel I have so little to say?  I'm not really even sure anymore how I came to be here, but here I am.  The details feel foggy.  Kind of like when you see someone on a talk show, and they're asked about why they haven't spoken to a family member in 10 years.  They would be hard pressed to remember what it was that ever drove them apart, what it was that started that ridiculous argument, but as soon as the anger receded, awkwardness took over rather heartily.  They never quite found the words to begin the relationship anew.

I'm like that lady trying to remember why she hasn't spoken to her sister in a decade, except that in my own case I'm trying to remember why I can't sit five minutes in a church without utter regret at having walked in the door.

Julie and I talk about it sometimes.  She says that where usually I'm so full of sure words, here I become halted, fumbling.  She's so patient with me while I alternate between rambling and crying, badly attempting to put words to my thoughts.  The best thing she's ever said to me: "I'm not worried about you.  You haven't disappointed me here.  Believe it or not, you're in a great place, an honest one."

Gulp.  Honesty honestly feels like a bit more than I've got in me most days.  It's too hard to remain vulnerable very long.  Too raw.

***

The internet being my favorite distraction from that nagging cursor, I surfed for a while.  It's been so long since I've really been in church that I can't really say what it is that's hard for me.  So, I went back to my old intern stomping grounds (rather, my old stomping grounds' website) and listened to some sermons.

Listened to about five minutes worth, anyway.  I can't go too long without having the same gut reaction that I have, say, to watching Jesus Camp. It's not that people have inherently bad intentions.  On the contrary, their intentions are for good.  It's just all too familiar, and yet, so unfamiliar after these years away.

In kind of a "help!" moment I wrote Dan and asked him to tell me what it was like for him during the season he was away from church world before re-entering ministry.  (I'm kind of open to whatever thoughts people who have walked there can offer, by the way).

I'm just wondering what you did during those years away from church to keep your faith alive, if anything.  I know you and Julie think this is a great place for me to be faith-wise because I'm asking so many questions and trying to do this thing for myself, but the truth is, I feel pretty lonely and wonder if I'm just totally off my rocker to be wondering the things I do about how to "live for Jesus."  Even saying those words feels awkward and horrible.

I think the tears started to trickle right around this point.  Just around the moment I finished up my email, this song came on my Pandora, and while it may be complete coincidence, it still moved me in a way that I haven't been moved in a long time.  Two minutes later, I bought it on I-tunes and it's been on repeat ever since.  Alison Krauss sings:


A LIVING PRAYER

In this world I walk alone
With no place to call my home
But there's one who holds my hand
The rugged road through barren lands
The way is dark, the road is steep
But He's become my eyes to see
The strength to climb, my griefs to bear
The Savior lives inside me there

In Your love I find release
A haven from my unbelief
Take my life and let me be
A living prayer, my God to Thee

In these trials of life I find
Another voice inside my mind
He comforts me and bids me live
Inside the love the Father gives

In Your love I find release
A haven from my unbelief
Take my life and let me be
A living prayer, my God to Thee

Take my life and let me be
A living prayer, my God to Thee

***

In her sweet voice, the words seemed to say:  It's dark sometimes.  It's lonely often.  And unbelief shows up for some of us far more often than moments of certainty.  Still, we offer what we can of ourselves, knowing it's not enough -- knowing, somehow, it might yet be.

For me, tonight, it's enough.