I met with my spiritual adviser this afternoon. I have to force myself to believe it was a gift from God to his daughter- a daughter who feels like God shouldn't be giving her gifts. My spiritual adviser is an old friend I've known for a hundred years, and thankfully I knew it was highly unlikely that I could offend him with the content of my current dark thoughts. And very importantly, I knew he wouldn't care if I cried ugly. Apparently, crying is the new important spiritual work I need to be about now. My friend doesn't judge and condemn in these kind of matters; he's a rare gift of a person. He can listen and hear with his heart. I explained to him the precarious state of my faith. I spoke out loud, maybe the first time in my life, "I am angry with God. Why did He make me like this? Why can't I be a person who isn't so..." But I am that person. I am angry with God and the way I'm made. And this horrible hand of cards I've been dealt. I've never been happy to just go along with the crowd in bliss. I'm not satisfied. I want to
change....the....world....with who I am,
but I am not. I've merely been surviving. Not grieving. Not growing. My friend told me it was time to begin to dream again, and most of me staggered internally. I can't live my dreams, so I've shoved them down completely. Shut the door, put on my big girl pants, and walked away into the what-I-have-to-do-world. The kind of atmosphere where I need to provide my own health insurance and retirement. There's no room for theological study and contemplation or writing. I have only time for work, menu planning, grocery shopping, laundry, times tables memorization, cross country meets, football games, vaulting practice, teenage pep talks, reading aloud and spelling words. Recently, I've opened my packed schedule for regular bouts of sobbing. After all that, there is no sacred space- only exhaustion.
All I can manage now is hope deferred, and that's never a good thing.
My assignments from this spiritual advising session seem to be meet again, read some inspiration, write and cry. And somehow, this makes me feel a wee bit better.
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