Surrendered in the Valley

Normally sleep comes easy for me. But not this night. Tossing and turning until 2:15 a.m.  My tear ducts clogged, eye pain, body restless, feeling a spiritual torment.

The Holy Spirit prompted me, “Pray ‘release.’ Say ‘release in Jesus Name.’”

I didn’t know what I was saying “release” to but I felt it. Something deeply suppressed or suppressive. “Release,” I whispered aloud, eyes still closed. “Release, in Jesus’ Name,” I said louder. And something released. Something inside me unleashed.

And then, tears. Streaming from right to left, turning to one side to wipe them and then the other, because still my eyes were closed. Thoughts fluttered, and a recognition of a lie released. People won’t  love you when you’re broken. People will turn away from you when you’re angry. They’ll get annoyed with you when you’re sad. So, suppress the anger. Suppress the sadness. Suppress, suppress, suppress.

But the dam broke and I was rebaptized in my tears. Not only was something released, but I finally surrendered. I had been wrestling so much with God. “Why won’t you answer my petitions, my little specific prayers? I don’t want the valley. I don’t want the desert. Take me from it. Why aren’t you fixing it? Why aren’t you taking me out of it?” I just wanted to get out, out, out! And the answer came without words but an unmistakable message: You must conquer the battle in the valley, the one with yourself. Nothing will change until you surrender and decide to accept that you’re in the valley. Accept yourself.

So I surrendered, quite begrudgingly, as God knows. And I said, “Fine, but since You’re not going to take me out, please at least give me little consolations along the way. I just need Your affirmations. I know You love me, but I need Your attention now.”

And so He has been. One Sunday (I usually go to an English Mass when I’m in Swazi), I decided to go to the SiSwati Mass. Nothing is in English, even when you go up for communion, it’s SiSwati. But for some reason, this day, when I went up to receive the Eucharist, the Priest, raising the Host, looked into me (not at me) and switched smoothly to the only English he spoke that morning: “The Body of Christ.”  and it felt… like I was individually seen… out of hundreds.

And then, an occasion in the U.S., with cookie dough ice cream. Cookie Dough ice cream is my absolute favorite and so is Culvers. Combine the two and it’s a feast for this girl. Just ask my brother Justin about his attempt to steal my cookie dough one time when we were in high school. You see, my friend Heather had gifted me my own carton of cookie dough ice cream for my birthday. My brother Justin decided he would taunt me with it, by taking a spoonful of it from across the room. “Put that back, now!” I yelled. He smirked, and scooped a big chunk into his mouth. I leapt from my seat, and he tried to run. I caught him from behind, hooked one arm around his neck with my other hand snatching the carton from his and threw him to the ground, whilst saving the cookie dough. My parents, who saw the whole thing, started laughing. Anger dissipated and I giggled, triumphant, with my brother stunned.  

So, anyway, one day recently we were at Culvers but I hadn’t ordered any ice cream. A server comes around the bend, carrying an extra dish of Cookie Dough and says, “We accidentally made an extra, here you can have this one.” Free!  – like it was handmade, handpicked for me. O sweet Jesus, what a gift not for my tongue but my soul, too. His Love never tasted so good.

There a hundred little things God has done like this, and soon my “In the Valley” collection of dark, depressing, disappointing, angry, frustrated, and sad thoughts/expressions/writings will be glittered with incredible streaks of light, hope, soul smiles, and gratitude. Until recently, I had felt like God was punishing me. That’s why I’m in the valley. That’s why I’m on sabbatical. I asked Him one day in prayer, and He said, “Oh, my child. This is not punishment. This is provision. Why are you so bent on punishing yourself? 

"Come, My child, let Me fix your armor. Let Me tend to your wounds. Let Me fix your crown. I didn't leave you in the valley. I gave you the valley, My Hiding Place, where no weapon, no lie, no self-hatred can stand a chance against My Love."

 

Metaphorical Physical Therapy

 Dear Kate,

You've suffered a number of blows one closely after another. Expecting recovery so soon is like getting back into the knockout ring with a broken rib, dislocated shoulder, a bleeding nose, and a half-working lung. Healing takes time. You aren't just healing from one event, or one thought, or one battle. You're healing from ----, ----, ----, ----, ----, ----, hating yourself, dealing with --- and breaches of trust and betrayal , all the while still healing from ---- and ----, and ----, and ----, and ----. It's like expecting your bloody nose to stop bleeding without putting pressure on it, or expecting that since your nose now stopped bleeding everything else is healed. That's just not how it works. You still have a broken rib, a half-working lung, a dislocated shoulder. And you still need to heal those things ONE at a time.

They aren't all going to heal at the same time nor at the same speed. So getting back into the ring and expecting not to fail, not to lose the fight, is a little foolish if you ask me. You hate yourself because you keep losing, you keep getting hurt, your gifts and talents are suppressed. You feel trapped on the inside, wanting to scream because you KNOW you can do better. You KNOW how strong you actually are, how gifted you actually are, how much impact you can actually make, but you can't seem to perform in the ring. You go a few good rounds but it always ends the same. 

You feeling broken not victorious.

So, my dearest friend, with all the love I have for you, please stop the fruitless effort of getting back into the ring right now. Please stop expecting all your bones and muscles to heal the same way and speed as your bloody nose. Please wait. Train someone else to go in the ring and throw the punches. 

So my practical advice in this season is sabbatical. Six months of metaphorical physical therapy. Rebuild the muscles, recover the strength, and restore those broken bones. YOU are NOT broken. But you HAVE broken bones. 

Love,

The Great Advocate (Holy Spirit)

 

Splintered Glass

 Journal entry about trust: 

"I am not Eve, thought my tendencies of her are strong. I am the daughter of the Redeemed human race, daughter of Mary. Daughter of Faith. Daughter of the Yes. Daughter of obedience. Mother of Trust. I do not need “to know.” I rebuke the snake and repel the temptation to want to know. Abba, Father, I am Yours. Redeem my broken heart and splintered glass of trust."

Splintered Trust

Like a pebble hitting glass,

The impact, not big enough

To shatter the whole

Window shield

But precise enough in position,

Size, and weight to hit its exact mark

Cracks the surface,

Sending ripples of splintered glass

Like a spider web of lies

Spreading across the center

Windshield

 

What is supposed to shield and protect,

Now distorted

My vision confused

 

Yes, he hit his mark

Once a friend, but it was only a mask

Now making me his enemy

Wanting to take me down with him

As he falls

 

He plants suspicion,

Deafening whispers

Behind closed doors

Hiding traps for me in dark corners

He attacks my character

Even as testimony after testimony

Is written against him

Court is knocking on his door

So he attempts to blow mine down

By persuading some of my own

To follow him

 

He laughs that he has

“access from within”

And taunts me with

Pointing out that I am

Running with those whom I can’t trust

His friend, my trusted Judas

 

And the splintered glass tempts me

To pull over and empty out my car.

If I can’t trust anyone,

I’ll do it alone.

But I look at those beside me,

And I don’t see Judas.

I see Jesus.

He is with me.

Emmanuel.

And He smiles at the ones

At my side

“I will deal with Judas,” He tells me

“Don’t stop the car.”

“Don’t look at the windshield, look beyond it.

Do you see? Do you see it, Kate?”

 

I look through the splintered glass

And see a waterfall ahead,

Dazzling rainbows and prisms of color

I have never seen before

The splintered glass no longer

A distortion of reality,

No longer a distraction,

But a vision of glory!

A gift I get to share

With all those

Sitting in the seats

He Came for Me

I always saw the Parable of the Good Samaritan through the lens of the good Samaritan, the good we should do for others. I never saw it through the eyes of the victim until now:

“A men fell victim to robbers as he went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. They stripped and beat him and went off leaving him half-dead.” (Luke 10:30)

My counselor earlier this year said to me, “This kind of betrayal is life-altering. Give yourself some time.” Especially for a painstakingly tender heart of mine. So many times I’ve mumbled in exasperation, God, you got the wrong girl. I am so not fit for this. Please, please pick someone stronger. My heart is weak, it’s too soft, it feels everything and feels for everyone. I forgive often because I understand, I feel what they battled with, where they came from, why they made the decisions they’ve made. I am deeply empathetic. Which makes it extremely difficult when I don’t receive the empathy or grace I often give. It makes it extremely difficult when people don’t understand me. I understand them, how can they not put themselves in my shoes and understand me?

And that’s the cry of the victim, too, right? To not just be seen, but understood. Trauma can isolate but the real issue is the validation beneath the surface. Sometimes we just need someone to want to carry the suffering with us. We feel understood, held, validated for our brokenness, and free to not pretend or not feel rushed to fix it. When someone understands and holds that moment with us, ah, it changes everything. Just like the Good Samaritan. The victim was left half-dead, and still the passerby’s “saw” but found reasons to not validate, not to understand, not to empathize, and therefore not to engage. They justified their own actions instead.

“A priest happened to be going down that road, but when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side. Likewise, a Levite came to the place, and when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side.” (vs 31-32)

Some people that I expected to understand, expected to stop at my cries for help, people who perhaps “should” be the ones to stop and help, instead pass me by and pass me off. “Oh, she’ll be fine,” they say. “She’s done it before, she’ll do it again.” “She signed up for this.” 

“It’s not the worst that could happen.” “We all go through it.” “Why is she complaining so much, she’s not dead.” “Well, I’m burned out like her, too.” And off they go.  I am seen but not validated. Acknowledged but not understood. Noticed but not enough to engage.

People who should care, who should know what to do, who should provide and comfort and plan – pass me by on the opposite side, in a hurry to the real mission site, in a hurry to deliver the real provisions they have, to give their support to the real service that is needed. I am just collateral damage, taking care of me will cost far more than their normal acts of service.

And yet, I lay there still, waiting, dying

Flies and gnats buzzing in anticipation of what flesh they can soon feast on

And suddenly, He comes for me

Half-dead (hope, trust, compassion crushed) and half-alive (only faint senses)

And carries me, my broken body, Limbs hanging, 

half-unconscious, bruised and bleeding

My Good Samaritan, God Himself coming to rescue me, to carry me to safety when no one else would

Jesus

He came for me.

 

“But a Samaritan traveler who came upon him was moved with compassion at the sight.

He approached the victim, poured oil and wine over his wounds and bandaged them. Then he lifted him up on his own animal, took him to an inn and cared for him. The next day he took two silver coins and gave them to the inn keeper with the instruction, “Take care of him. If you spend more than what I have given you, I shall repay you on my way back.” “Which of these three, in your opinion, was neighbor to the robbers’ victim?” The man answered Jesus, “The one who treated him with mercy.”  (Luke 10:33-37)

*As always with journals and emotions, especially anger which is often irrational, the feelings aren't necessarily the truth. For example, feeling abandoned doesn't mean I am. Sometimes victim mentality isolates us from the real truth, that there are many Good Samaritans, for example. And yet, emotions have a need to simply express themselves, like the Psalms, like Lamentations. So this series of blogs are insights into my own lamentations, and hopefully it encourages you to create space for yours. And meet Jesus along the way. 

The Problem with the Valley

To survive the valley, 

you have to be real comfortable in your own skin.

You’ll find many companions on the path to the mountaintop,

but very few will journey with you to the valley.

Those who do are unlikely to stay.

The closest companion you’re left with: you.

Your thoughts.

Your physical weakness.

Your limits.

Your sins.

Unmasked.

You become keenly aware of your scars, blemishes, incapabilities,

and if you’re not comfortable coming face to face with yourself,

you may not survive.

 

Self-hatred, self-loathing, self-condemnation

The valley is quiet; your thoughts, loud

The voice of the accuser in your own head, so close you can taste its poison.

 

In the mountaintops, your weaknesses don’t bother you

because you’re overwhelmed by the beauty surrounding you,

    the view from the top – breathtaking

    this moment – significant

    you – small

 

In the cities, your weakness don’t bother you because they are drown out by the noise

Or sometimes even the suffering of others

    Opportunities – everywhere

    This moment – insignificant

    You – the center

 

But in the valley?

Your weaknesses are on full display, weighing you down

Stuck in the marsh by your limits

Lost in the forest – your thoughts – going in circles

No noise, no distraction, no beauty

Just you and your ashes

 

To survive the valley

Is to have the fortitude to love yourself

Exposed, bare, raw, dirty

The Garden of Eden deep in the valley

The place to face your Maker as you are

Without even a fig leaf

To admit you took a bit of the poisoned apple

And to discover that the serpent’s lies

Are more about you

Than they are about Him.