when you’re tired of living dangerously
I have found myself bowing out of the fight these days. Brokenness no longer looks beautiful. The dust seems incapable of creating a shiny earthen vessel. I’m tired, weak, distracted and downright afraid of danger.
I get hit with this wet blanket every couple of months: my daughter’s disease is terminal. Incurable. And I serve a miracle-working God who hasn’t shown up like I imagined he would.
I have heard every religious platitude, and while good-intentioned, they don’t take away the questions and the tension. I have to live with the tension, plain and simple. I trust him still. And the questions? They hang heavy like bushels, ripe for the plucking. Every so often they fall off the branch and scatter their fragrance. I find myself inhaling and exhaling this bruised scent, maybe even living on this air.
While I don’t yet see restoration, a resolution or a breakthrough in medicine or miracles, I am still here. Inhaling. Exhaling. Repeating.
I felt unsure about writing this month. I knew my post would fall at the end of the month, after some thunderous words from other writers. And all the while I kept thinking: I have so much danger in my life … I don’t want any more! I don’t want to be dangerous right now. It costs too much and I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like for me.
Then God came in and spoke into the still places of my heart. With music in my ears and the white sun scraping my eyelids, he met me in the achy middle. I couldn’t move or write. I just was. And it was church to me. I was listening to Brandi Carlile, and these ragged rock and roll lyrics spoke to me: I keep pressing forward with my feet to the ground, for a heart that is broken makes a beautiful sound. I must have listened to it a dozen times. As I did, I felt God’s weighty words flood my mind: you can be tired and dangerous. Just keep on singing and writing and telling the truth.
Sometimes we get up and get knocked right back down again. Or declare in faith and get an unexpected answer. Or simply accept our daily bread as enough, when we feel starved.
Maybe you’re here too, brokenhearted but bursting with expectation. You know the angle and weight of every shard from your heart. So does the Mender and Maker. I believe he will make you whole again even as you wait in the silence. I also believe that you will see mountains tremble while you are still cracked wide open, seemingly weak.
Perhaps this is also dangerous living: when we simply turn our faces to the sun and lustily receive the warm, blinding recharge; when we turn our backs on darkness and whisper: I’m still here and I’m still standing. Hear my song.
We are fully equipped, whether we laugh, mewl, cry or spit in the face of danger because we are bound to the hip of a wild warrior God. Wherever we go, there he will be, filling our lungs with songs.
We are, no matter where we are and what we are doing, inherently dangerous in the best possible way.