Rock Life

I could hear her take a breath on the other end of the line. A pause. “What we’re doing is really hard, Mom,” she said. It is. I couldn’t say anything because my heart was in my throat again. Validation. No excuses or cheerleading or minimizing or avoiding. This is pain. I didn’t know this is how it goes until it happened to me. To us.

After a few minutes, we talked about last night’s storm - the one that missed us - and joked that it might rain here eventually. My best guess was sometime around Thanksgiving, sporadic as summer showers are here in the desert. We hung up. I went around closing windows and had put on my pajamas when a change in background sounds grabbed my attention.

Was that rain? Or just my imagination? Because sometimes when the air conditioner kicks on it sounds like . . . nope. It never sounds like thunder.

I walked into my bedroom, raised the blinds, and sat down in my chair across the room to watch the show. Lightning lit up the night sky, showcasing the beating the massive ash tree was taking from the monsoon’s onslaught. Violent winds whipped the branches, forcing them to twist and bend close to the ground in obedience to the storm’s demand. I began to pray that none of the old growth treasures in Katy’s backyard would be damaged by the storm. I remembered what happened to a neighbor’s elm a year ago during a similar onslaught. I didn’t want to see everyone’s favorite here pulled up by its roots and laid out across the back pasture.

Torrential rain pounded heavily against my huge bedroom window, but this house, this new home where I've lived for three months, was built strong and sturdy. It took the punishing wind in stride, allowing the storm’s fury to lash out relentlessly without giving up any ground. It reminded me of something I’d heard once, or maybe a thousand times, about another storm. How the rain fell, and the floods and torrents came, and the winds blew and slammed against another house in a similar storm. Yet that house did not fall because it had been built upon a rock.

I got it, but what about my questions? There are so many days when my feet seem to be sinking in quicksand that I have to wonder if my “house,” my life, can weather this terrible storm that’s overtaken me, pummeling my heart and those of my children, for the last year and a half. Every day I face multiple reminders of the truth my mind and my heart still haven't fully grasped. I carry the weight of it for hours, all day long, trudging through every normal routine with the energy of a sloth, and when I finally force myself to go to bed alone sleep is restless. I wake up exhausted, only to start all over again.

That just doesn’t feel like rock life to me.

So, I questioned the story of the house. I questioned the Author of the story. He’s used to that by now. And it doesn’t rock His world, so to speak.

“Are you sure, Lord?” I sighed. I knew those embedded verses floated to the surface at His command. They sure weren’t my idea. “What if I can’t keep standing against these winds? You hear them pounding me. You see me catch my breath and turn my head in public, trying to push the image of him to the back of my mind so no one feels uncomfortable or, worse, feels sorry for me when my eyes overflow with tears. You know it would be easier for me to resign from humanity and stay locked up in my house than to risk breaking down in public.

“I’m trying to rebuild my life without him beside me, not because I want to but because I have no other choice. What if I fall? What if I’m not stronger than I seem and braver than I believe and smarter than I think? What then? WHAT IF THIS STORM IS THE ONE THAT TAKES ME OUT?”

There wasn’t even a delay in the answer. There was no condemnation for the way I phrased it, either. There was, as there always is, supreme confidence and complete acceptance. And love. All enveloping love and understanding.

“God is within her, she will not fall.” Short and sweet and to the point, as usual, the reply came. There it is. This thing we’re doing is really hard. It won’t be over in a year. Not in two years. Or three. For all I know, it will take the rest of my life to grieve him and us. I don’t know. I’ve never been here before. I hardly know anyone else who has either. As Katy and Lee and I have often reminded each other, we don't know what we're doing.

All I can say for sure is that it’s hard. I miss him. Desperately. It makes me doubt what I’m made of. It makes me think I’m not “performing” well. I feel fragile and lost sometimes. I’m tired all the time. My family has had to circle the wagons while we take care of ourselves and each other. We used to run on autopilot, managing life with one arm tied behind our backs. Now it takes every ounce of focus just to put one foot in front of the other. Trying to survive is a full-time job.

Does it look like I’m falling? Yes, sometimes. Am I bent to the ground in sorrow? You bet. Will I break in this storm? I’m already broken. Am I built on the Rock? It’s the only thing I know for sure in a world that has taken away the security I once had.

When the storms come, I am His.
When the sun shines, I am still His.
Nothing depends on me.
Everything depends on Him.
That’s why he’s the Rock.
And I’m not.

Storms are scary, though. I’m afraid a lot. This one has dug in like a cut-off low and the waters are rising. Riding out this storm is harder than it looks, takes longer than you’d think, and is lonelier than you’d believe. How do I know I will come out on the other side in one piece?

Because God is within her. She will not fall. **

Fine. Bring me another umbrella. 

 

* And the storm came.  And the rain fell, and the floods and torrents came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. Matthew 7:25       **God is within her, she will not fall. Ps. 46:5