Many Partings

Isn't it amazing how changing a medium can coax thoughts into logical sentences. I spent long minutes sitting with this blank "compose" box glaring back at me. All I needed was a late night, a blank journal, and a new ink pen to pin my thoughts down. Finally, I sigh with relief, and copy the entry onto this blog.

I will never cease to understand the constant nudge I feel to publicly post on this very public blog my personal struggles and feelings. Perhaps it is rooted in a desire to help others. No, I'm far too sinful for so pure a desire. It probably has more to do with a strange sort of self-righteousness and false humility. Whatever the case, I post this journal excerpt here, mildly altered to avoid exposing identities and excruciating grammar errors.

6/13/11

I have never been a good journaler, and I don't expect that will change now. However, sometimes I need a thought dump, so I begin a new memoir. Here goes.

The past five weeks or so have been titled by myself, "Many Partings." Actually, the allusion to Tolkien will probably be extended to the whole summer. Why? Well, the obvious (and obscure all at the same time) answer is this: I am moving from my beloved home for 10 months to a new state, where I will live in a big city, attend a large church, and meet numerous people. For an introverted homebody, this is quite a traumatic prospect. Nonetheless, this is not my only reason.

This weekend I have been filled with a melancholy, half-mournful mood, and I think all these "many partings" are the source of my feelings. First, we have numerous literal partings: leaving my family for a trip abroad, "farewelling" new friends and places in Europe, ending relationships from ensembles after a year of hard work, sending off a happy bride and groom, enduring the annual goodbyes with old friends who visit yearly, etc. These experiences crammed into so short a period without having a good, therapeutic cry would be reason enough for a girl to be overwhelmed after a while. Yet, there is more.

I often feel that I am a 60 year old woman trapped in a 16 year old's body. Well, if that has been the case in the past, then my 90th birthday came and went this month. I feel so much more grown up, if that is possible, for not all of my goodbyes have been so straightforward. Some are more allegorical, philosophical, and symbolic, yet no less painful.

I've said goodbye to a beloved friend, who will never be the same after being touched by cancer. Yes, she is still her faith-driven, cheerful, gorgeous self, yet neither her life nor mine will ever be the same again. I've watched and witnessed the first of my childhood chums pledge her troth to her new husband. And even before Hannah walked up the aisle, radiant and glowing with excitement, I shed tears as my dearest friends -- no, my darling sisters -- Ruthie and Elizabee moved toward the alter as bridesmaids. In that split second, I realized how quickly time passes. As a wise woman I know has said many times recently, "In the next ten years, our lives will be filled with the weddings of you children." Life is happening.

And then I confess another parting -- the parting with a dream. My habits of pinning fictitious vignettes and Byronic scenes onto every person I meet is such a painful one. * (See my Dreamer post.) * Even though I know that God has not planned it, I watched a match disintegrate into the mist. Oh! the complications of silly crushes. I am ashamed to admit it, to even use such an inane word, yet I write it down, if for no other reason than my own humbling and the benefit of my own dear daughters one day.

Then I am reminded yet again of how little time I have left in this dear home of mine, and I fall into this horrid sadness. Lord, get me out!

I feel like time is like sand, constantly slipping through my fingers as a friend expressed through an email yesterday. I feel like Frodo, naked and groping in the dark, searching for protection, for something to cling to. All of my relationships, dreams, and normalcy has been kicked from under my feet. I feel like a man being hung at the gallows -- the prop has been moved; now I suffocate.

Look at this. Even as I write the words, I wonder how a girl can claim Christ as Redeemer and Friend and yet write such shallow words. I feel this, and I search for that. Who cares how I feel, and why do I search? There is truth that transcends each circumstance and emotion; there is hope which I have already received. I know that I know that I know. Then why is it so difficult? Why do I not understand His will, much less my own thoughts?

{Being a hormonal girl can be ever so frustrating.}

God, you are my Fast Anchor amidst the swelling seas of uncertainty, confusion, and downright misery. You are my Loving Father who smothers me with constant gifts to grow and mature me. You are the Beloved Bridegroom, enough to satisfy every thirst for intimacy, protection, and love. Grow me into a grateful girl -- not merely content, "gutting out" the godly response -- but wholly and completely dripping with thanksgiving for every painful circumstance and confusing situation.

* Note: I am not suicidal nor in the depths of despair right now. I share the thoughts that came to mind as ink flowed onto paper, and I tend to exaggerate in my constant journey to heights of literary genius. I'm fine, and God is faithful! (But isn't that so sad? My mind is so bothersome. I can't vent my own thoughts without the authoress inside watching for parallelism and pointing out potential phrases just begging for alliteration. Argh. It's kind of like when I cry. The actress inside yanks me over to a mirror, so that I can see what a sorrowful girl ought to look like. I hate feeling so base, fake, and shallow.) Anyways... I forgot what I was saying. ;-) *