under pressure

I’ve been feeling a lot of pressure since this whole sabbatical-ish thing happened. I say happened because I feel blissfully powerless against it all.

There is this pressure to figure things out. This pressure to rush through life, through this time. This pressure to say yes. This pressure to say no. This pressure to blog and be super spiritual. This pressure to heal. To say and feel the hard things. This pressure to have it all together.

I do not have it all together. I’m continuing to unravel-- a spool of thread rolling, rolling, and unrolling.

This pressure, it is not calling or drawing of the Spirit, this is me-- plowing through life, head down, eyes fixed ahead and not around. This is Alyssa-- a tightly wound spool of thread.

I set a reminder on my phone that says Blog post, please, as if being polite could dredge up motivation or desire or inspiration to write. That little red bubble, haunting me, taunting me, pressuring me: write, feel, share, fix. Today I swiped left and deleted it. I don’t want to rush. I don’t want to force it, I don’t want to look back and say What a waste!

I’m one month in, though it’s hard to believe. Where have the last thirty days run off to? Surely they were not here. September is ending, the days are shorter, cooler. The leaves are turning. New England is beautiful in the fall. The pressure of winter is pushing in and the pressure of wanting answers is leaving my heart restless.

I have to often remind myself of the way that God has met me and revealed Himself to me in this time. It seems like daily I have to stop myself and laugh at how beautifully this whole sabbatical-ish came together, how totally other-worldly this whole thing is.

I think that God has deepened my love for my family, for my church, for my friends, for ministry to the women in my life. And He has drawn me to Himself. I am in the Word and it often feels fresh and novel. It feels like beginning a great journey, like coiling this wandering, unwinding spool of thread.

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Reading in Ephesians 5 this morning, I stumbled upon this all too familiar passage.

““...for at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light (for the fruit of light is found in all that is good and right and true) and try to discern what is pleasing to the Lord.” (verses 8-10)”

I guess that I have always just read this wrong. I always read, “you were in darkness” and “now you are in the light.” Just one small word but a whole world of difference. This in implies that we are powerless, that these forces are outside ourselves and that we are, in some way or another, victim to them.

But we were not merely in darkness, we were darkness. Before Christ, I was darkness and enemy and death. In Christ, I am not just in the light, I am light. The Holy Spirit is innnnnnnnnnnn me, shining out of me, rearranging soul-furniture, drawing me ever closer to the Source of Light.

Christ has not just changed our position, He has changed US-- at our core, our very substance and being. No longer darkness, now light. Emanating from within us not from around us. The Spirit shows us light but also makes us light. We are not dependent upon the lights “out there” to guide our path or give us purpose or substance.

Jesus is our light and our purpose and our path.

May I not lose that truth-- not during this sabbatical-ish, not during this lifetime. May my eyes be fixed, may my heart be centered on Jesus, the true life-breathing, purpose-giving, path-leading Light.

It’s four o’clock on a crisp is this summer or is this fall? Monday. The world is finishing up their work day, packing up briefcases, searching for jingling keys in purses and desk drawers. It’s four o’clock and I’m drawing a hot bath, trying to teach myself to slow down.

I fill the bathtub too high. I always fill it too high, too hot. My face bobs above the water. My ears listen to the rushing, gushing of the water through the overflow drain.

I sink my head into the water, cramming my body diagonally so that I’m completely submerged. I’m holding my breath, listening to the rushing, gushing of the water through the overflow drain.

Water in any form has always felt like a home. I can hold my breath for too long.

I try to open my eyes. The water is hot. It distorts my view of the shower curtain and ceiling. Nothing looks as it should from the bottom, all blurry renditions of realities.

I close my eyes again, holding my breath. My body still crammed diagonally, my ears still listening to the rushing, gushing of the water through the overflow drain.

I feel like I could sink for miles. I feel like I could stay here for days.

I surface for breath, right myself again and fight the urge to begin the ritualistic washing, conditioning, rinsing of hair.

Just stay. Here. A little longer. Just be. Still.

Why am I rushing through moments?

Why am I not slowing down?

Why am I running from rest?

packing up

I moved the last few bits and pieces on Sunday, after breakfast and before church. My entire life shoved into just a few boxes and bins. I closed the door with its familiar squeak and took a long, hard look. Let out a long, hard sigh.

Was it relief?

Was it sadness?

Was it excitement or anxiety or anticipation?

Was it fear for what comes next?

I’d like to say that it was a little bit of everything but it’s not--it’s like too much of everything. I am too relieved and too sad and too excited and so, so scared all at once.

My little doggy-doodle, Olive, clearly stressed about this whole situation.

It takes a lot of time and heart and energy to make a space a home. To fill it with love and memories and quirky little keepsakes.

It took four years to make that little place feel like mine, just a few weeks to pack it all up, and only a few trips with my Prius to move it all out.

I somehow managed to build a sanctuary that could be so easily disassembled. Just a few days and the smell of me and all of my things will give way to stale, unlived-in air.

This whole moving thing is just the beginning. It’s all much less about changing life-spaces and more about packing up my life, job, unhealthy-relationship-with-my-work at a Christian camp and leaving it all behind.

The last four years of my life have been about giving, giving, giving and now I’m empty, empty, empty. Empty and so eager to be filled with something more than self.

The last six months have been incredibly hard, faced with the impending end of my normal. The only blessing has been the insane way in which Jesus has met me at every turn-- as a friend who has sat by me as I’ve had hard conversations and made hard decisions, as a High Priest who knows and feels all of my pain, and as my Savior who died for me at my worst and does not love me because of what I do or where I serve.

So much is ending, changing. So many chapter are closing, new ones beginning that it’s allowed me to begin dreaming again.

What makes me come alive?

What is God calling me to next?

And that brings me here: writing this blog post from my parents’ basement, just three months before my twenty-eighth birthday, with no real “plan” for the next six months. Here begins the journey of figuring myself out, of regrounding myself in the beautifully simple Gospel of Jesus.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.