My mind wanders often to a sunny day with comic shaped
clouds and laughter so thick I could touch it. Us, a familiar and comfortable few
full of expectation and joy. And contentment. Round as a circle, unified and
flowing. So confident in our “meant to be” and “His plans and purposes.”
I look back over my shoulder and watch that day float farther
and farther away. And the deep places in my soul fill with envy. And sadness.
And anger.
There’s that moment in all of our journeys. THAT day that we
look back on and long for, in mind or spirit. The moment of peace or joy or
idyll that has been stolen by our present. We didn’t know it then, it had no
name. But now we wake into each day knowing.
The backwards glance.
That day is held in perfect pitch,
us safe in our blindness, stepping into an unknown whose shape and form and
challenges would alter forever the life we knew. And the life we loved.So often that idyll was built on a familiarity that has
evaporated, along with our dreams and hopes of what would be. Because what
actually is looks nothing like that dream. And we find ourselves walking,
circle paths, in the desert. Nothing in this new land is familiar. Nothing fits.
Foreign tongue and dress and forms. With no road map. Wandering.
In our now we seem
all corners and angles, shapes with no beauty or harmony. Unfitting puzzle
pieces with more than a few missing. And gaping holes begging to be filled.
That backwards glance often levels me, spinning, reeling into a sadness and
heartache of my own creation. Yet I cling to it. Wrap myself in it as I feel my
body turning to salt.
It’s not the looking that is the enemy. It’s the longing and
comparing that shapes my now, colors it dim. Because it can’t BE then anymore.
It just can’t. We are different and new, rougher and struggling. And newness is
unsettling. At best.
“Don’t look back!” is
the simple answer. Have no expectations, the impossible requirement. Our
hearts remember even if we refuse to allow our minds to venture there. Joyous
laughter seemingly sucked out of our rooms, the walls now resonate with
hardship. Yours, mine, different but
born of the same change. A hardship we couldn’t imagine.
Your hardship may be mine. Maybe screaming and hateful words. Maybe unending crying.
Maybe just defiant stares and refusals of love. Hidden food and frustrated
tears. Struggles so hard and wounds
impossibly deep. Diagnoses that rob. The reverb is painful and foreign, nothing
like the cadence of US before. And we watch as the locusts consume.
The memory does seep in, and drags with it the most damaging
wondering of all “If only we had known…” The woulds and coulds and shoulds run
wild as we point fingers and place blame. And our bitterness and anger and
sorrow grow, heaped onto the shoulders of that “if only.” We carry them side by
side. Bitterness. If only. They overwhelm us like a fog, and we stumble on, unable
to see our blessing.
And there is blessing. And promise. Purpose even. Moments of
joy and hope that shine like new pennies in clear, rippling water. If we push
through the fog and refuse the backwards glance. If we remind our hearts of
where true joy is found—in His lap.
As we crawl up and cling, listening to the promise, hope
rises. A smile and hug. A passing grade. A moment of peace. Responsibility
taken. Successful treatment. Aarons and Hurrs to hold and help. A day with no
fit. Tiny reminders of His love that help us to cling harder and press on.
There is no profit in “if only.” No profit in looking back
and wondering what could have been but never will. Only fog. The promise of returning is there, in the
future. Ahead, not behind. Returning
what the locusts have eaten. A returning of joy. Because the jagged edges will
be smoothed. And the holes will be filled. The crooked made straight. In time. His
time.
His promises shine through the fog if we stop craning our
neck to look behind, open our eyes and see. Live in His lap and choose truth
over what seems to be.
And sometime soon, in the “what will be” the most jagged
moment will illuminate the blessing of what we have become. A triumph. Because
the jagged is one color, one layer of paint that is required for the
masterpiece. Count it all joy.
