Somewhere Between the Waves
On Weariness, Silence, and Holding On
Over the last year, I have found my writing life moving to the back burner — not intentionally, but unavoidably.
I am fatigued and weary. I have found myself in a new season, a new chapter of life, which I have been deeply grateful for, but it has also brought teething pains and growing pains. My emotional muscles are being stretched, reformed, and reshaped into something I cannot yet name. I have resisted, yielded, cried, laughed, slumbered, lain awake, been paralyzed with fear, and been quite completely confused at certain moments over the last year.
I can feel the seasons shifting, the wind changing direction, and I am restless. What once was clear no longer is, and every time words come to my mind, I find myself losing the desire to say anything. It is almost as though a strange malaise has settled over me.
Moving through the motions of my life seems to be my constant. That is not to say I am ungrateful — if anything, there is much to be grateful for, and practicing the discipline of gratitude keeps me moving forward.
Cheering on fellow writers on their journeys brings me joy. Finding writers who hold opinions different from mine, yet are willing to engage in healthy conversation, is refreshing for my soul. I hungrily search for them.
Strengthening new muscles from empty nesting started hard, but it is growing into something stronger and more resilient. Yet living day to day in a deeply polarized world has taken its toll on my soul.
I never know what to say in conversation. I worry about offending the person beside me or across from me. Often surrounded by people at work, church, and social events, I find myself listening intently — trying to understand what others really think or feel, so that whatever comes out of my mouth encourages and uplifts. And all the while, I find myself whispering in my head, “Don’t be fake. It’s okay to be you.”
I am afraid to be me. I am afraid to be myself in circles where everyone follows Christ — the very circles where I should feel the deepest trust and security. More often than not, I stay silent. Watching from the sidelines, listening to conversations, feeling out of place and out of sorts. This malaise seems to drag on forever, and the world still keeps turning.
I find some measure of comfort in places where the love of Christ has not yet been shared. Is that where I am supposed to be? I am not sure.
Writing this has taken its toll. I am terrified that anyone who reads it will think it is utter nonsense and drivel.
Wishing the world could change overnight into something new and different seems like a foolish dream — and yet the reality is that every day, the world is different and new.
Babies are born every day, bringing joy and delight to eager parents. Couples fall in love and marry with dreams of a future. Young adults graduate from high schools and colleges with stars in their eyes. Cancer survivors ring the bell as they leave the oncology ward, hearts and bodies filled with hope. Every video of a baby seeing or hearing for the first time brings tears to my eyes. And yet it is hard to hold onto that hope in the midst of war, famine, terror, and death. For those who wake up every morning to grey skies, smoke, and bombing, I wonder — where do they find hope? Will they ever find it? Will a child’s birthday in the middle of war still be as sweet as one celebrated in suburbia? Will grief and death there be the same as wrapping a loved one in a sheet without access to a proper burial?
My weariness lingers, but at the end of the day, I run to the one person who can carry this heavy burden. I know I was not made to carry it alone. So I find myself laying it all before the God who truly gets it — who understands this world, who feels the exhaustion, the weariness, and the deep loneliness. Some days, I wish He would simply appear before me and tell me what to do. But He does not always work like that.
Needless to say, I am struggling — holding on to God like a limpet, unwilling to let go even as the waves crash around me. I pray for the waves to ebb, for breath, for a supernatural peace.
I know it is there, even when I cannot feel it. So I breathe, and I relinquish my worries for today. Tomorrow I will breathe and relinquish again, because His mercy is new every morning.
Come, Holy Spirit, to my mind — I receive your comfort.
Come, Holy Spirit, to my heart — I receive your peace.
Come, Holy Spirit, to my soul — I receive the Father’s love for me.1
Taken from Lectio 365
Not drivel. I appreciate you, Sherene!
Feeling much in the same place. Love this image, "holding on to God like a limpet." Me too, friend. Me too.