Lately, I haven’t wanted to pray. Not even my five-minute, super-short version.
I haven’t wanted to journal either, which is another way I connect to God. I’ve not wanted to do yoga, which is yet another. Haven’t been doing so much crafting the Bible, or reading my BCP on weekends.
I haven’t wanted to do any of it.
Mostly, I’m trying to just let it be. I try to notice that I don’t want to show up for those things, and do them anyway if it doesn’t feel panicky. Notice if there are other ways I can connect to God. Pay attention to my aversion without judging it too much.
But let’s get real: my disinterest in Spiritual Things makes me a little panicky.
I want to want God. I want to want prayer. He has sustained me through a hard last year, and the communion with him has been a table in the wilderness. I have not needed life to be easy when I was able to feel God right there, so tangible that everything feels holy.
He is enough. He is enough. He is enough.
Except—then suddenly he’s not, or I’m not, or something has shifted, and I am in different terrain altogether, and there is no table.
And I wonder what am I doing wrong?
Mostly, I have learned from amazing writers like Micha Boyett that faith is cyclical. That the natural rhythms of moon and seasons and tides and even PMS have something to teach me. That nothing on earth, not even a rock, stays unchanged forever. That a time where God is a crescent moon, half-hidden from me, does not mean I have dropped the ball.
But it’s one thing to know this, and another to not feel even more aversion from prayer when I don’t get soul candy in exchange for showing up. It’s one thing to tell myself I’m not doing it wrong, and another thing to be content being with God without trying to fix myself.
Managing, controlling, fixing and judging give me something to do with my hands.
Last week I went out on a walk in the dark, and I was woefully aware that I was glad to not be praying and journaling, and sad that my enthusiasm for God has waned, that my practice of faith is even thinner than normal, and I asked God why do I find it so hard to reach out to you?
I was walking down the street near our house, the silouettes of trees black against the dim charcoal of sky. I walked, and I breathed, and then I told God I felt sad to not want to spend time with him.
The admission caught me off guard. In all my worry, I had missed my grief.
I told God I didn’t know what to do, because forcing myself to do things I don’t want to do always brings anxiety and resentment along like a dog running after a car.
I told him I was afraid.
I was afraid I had gone off course somewhere, that I had mired myself, like I did for ten years after college, in a land of dimness and cynicism and bitterness and shame.
I started to cry. I realized I was terrified of going back to a place of bitterness. I was terrified, yet again, that I was doing it wrong. I told him I utterly depended on him to tell me what to do differently if I was doing something wrong.
I breathed a little easier.
Its okay to have ups and downs, I told myself. It’s okay to wax and wane.
Suddenly it struck me that God was not needing me apologize to him for being up-and-down. He didn’t need me to protect his ego when I was honest about how I was feeling. I didn’t need to manage him, or worry about him, just like I didn’t need to force myself to be any particular way to please him.
God is not a dysfunctional boyfriend.
Being was okay.
Being was okay.
Being up and down and sideways was okay.
When I walk in my neighborhood I walk a long circle. The point is not to get somewhere. The point is to take the lay of the land, and then return home.
I am trying to remember my faith works the same way: that regardless of whether I feel all tingly about Jesus, I’m always headed back to Him. Even my sadness about God’s hiddenness is a clue whom it is I seek.
It is an easy yoke to learn how to be with Jesus. That does not mean it does not require courage. It takes bravery to keep walking when you feel like you’re alone.
I will pay attention to the markers on the road and pray I don’t get lost. I will pray for strength on the journey. And I will pray that I will trust God is alongside me even when I don’t feel his presence on demand.
Image credit (with my modifications): Carl Milner
JennaDeWitt
“God is not a dysfunctional boyfriend.”
Sigh. Why do I keep forgetting this? Thanks, as always, for the soul refreshing reminder. <3
Heather Caliri
You and me both. 🙂
J.L. Sanborn
Heather, your honesty is so beautiful. Thank you. Last year these words in Jan L. Richardson’s advent book stuck with me: “We will know these places again and again in our lives because God’s path unfolds not in a straight line but in a spiral.” You describe that here. I don’t think we are prepared for or taught that this ebb and flow of faith is normal and okay. That just being is sacred work.
Heather Caliri
Hey, thanks! I love that spiral idea–and I think it’s the way the world works if you’re not in a machine-powered society. 🙂 Rhythms, not relentlessness.
Johanna
Oh Heather, I so relate to the wanting to want and the terror of sliding back into that place of bitterness and the controlling…and really all of this. I’ve been thinking a lot about the cyclical nature of things lately as winter looms close. Walking through the woods among all the green, living things is where I’ve most felt connected to God lately. I always feel panicky as winter approaches, but doubly so this year. Thank you for sharing your own experience and reminding me that not only will spring come again, but also that it is enough to just be.
Heather Caliri
It’s actually kind of lovely, the space after I realized I was petrified. I feel quiet with God right now, and it’s filling in a different way. Hope your wintertime is full of quiet.
Lindsey Smallwood
Even my sadness about God’s hiddenness is a clue whom it is I seek.
Yes. After a lifetime of working toward and for and in search of God, realizing that He is there, unchanging, holding me in grace is such a sweet gift. Thanks for the honest way you write about faith and doubt, it’s such an encouragement to me.
Heather
Thanks, Lindsey. I’m SO glad to have you with me in the journey 🙂
Heather Caliri
Thanks, Lindsey. That means a lot to me 🙂
Colleen Cunningham
I try (TRY!) to remind myself that this type of season can be a type of hibernation. Hibernation is important because it preserves and protects and heals. But we can only really experience the purpose of it when we emerge into the next situation which God has been preparing for us as we hibernated. The more I read the Bible, the more I think I see this over and over in some of the stories. This gentle reminder from God has never failed me. (Perhaps you can take this idea and write about it? But NO pressure!)
Heather Caliri
Ha! I love gentle suggestions. And I love this way of looking at it–that there are fallow periods that renew the land. We’re so tempted to see productivity as never-ending, and there’s simply no natural way that works.
I’ll think about writing about it. Maybe you should write a guest post 🙂
Colleen Cunningham
Oh!! You got me 🙂 I’ve been thinking about blogging again and maybe this would be a good way to get those wheels turning again. Let me pray on that …
Heather Caliri
No pressure! I’m just trying myself to grow in the discipline of doing this whole blogging thing WITH other people. I value your voice!