Capture a city: let us prove God there.
Give me a field, though dry, unpromising, and bare.
Sink me a well to water all this land;
let me draw deep. And feed me from your hand.
Show me a cave, remind me of the past:
embrace my exile. Tell me I’m loved at last.
Safe in the deepening darkness, uncover a heart that sings.
Feet planted firmly in the ground, release the nether springs!
~Andy Raine, based loosely on Judges 1:12-15~
It has been some time. I have a bit of a story to tell.
I found a poem recently. The first part reminded me of last year, which I wrote about here. But it is the second part where I want to pick up the thread, for it is the next chapter.
“Show me a cave, remind me of the past:
embrace my exile. Tell me I’m loved at last.”
This part of the story remained in obscurity until recently, when, by the light of this poem I looked back upon the past few months and realized where fit. It feels like I was in a bit of a haze until the light at the end, when I looked back and could see the beginning.
After writing about “Whirling”, I knew it was time to slow down and think. And I did prepare a quiet tea, sipped it slowly, and thought.
And it seems as though I went through a doorway: A doorway called Subconscious Disappointment. And I went down, down into the muffled, chill darkness of the underground: The Underworld of Remembrances. A world where the very walls are the stuff that shapes our thinking—or perhaps it’s our thinking that shapes the very walls. Anyway, at first I did not feel the descent, but at a week until my birthday the chill and dark had got to me, and I was numb.
Walking on in this numbness, the descending tunnel leveled out, and along all the walls were pictures—many, many pictures: memories of the past. And here I discovered I was no longer alone. Some friendly birds had followed me down, it seems, and they spoke with me and cheered me (what little bit I could be cheered). It was they who would draw my attention to one or other of the pictures and make me pause, in my gray state of mind, to notice it.
Then suddenly, on Christmas night came a violent *crack* which jolted me from my frozen apathy. On New Year’s Day came a flash of light, which revealed a glimpse of breathtaking hope!
Then in the darkness that closed in again I took a misstep and tumbled down a stair. At the base of the stair I lay curled up; shaken, alarmed, distressed. I thought, “How could I be so clumsy!” And looking up, I saw on the wall a picture of a friend from years ago, with whom also I took a “misstep”, and lost them. And then was a picture of another incident with another friend, and then another… And I suddenly realized that a noxious weed had grown in my heart, which must now be yanked out lest it destroy more relationships: That weed of Criticism and the Desire to Control.
Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.
If thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand? But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.
I will wait for the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope. My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.
Let Israel hope in the Lord: for with the Lord there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption. And he shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.
Psalm 130
Then I heard the voices of the birds. What were they saying? They spoke of their own hurts, their own failures, their own mistakes and difficult paths. And I could only gape in sorrow. How? You have been of such cheer to me! Why? Why would you sweet little birds tell me of your hurts, of the places you have been that are filled with much more terrible things than I have encountered? How am I even worthy to hear you—I who have but stubbed my toe in a darkness which still yet smells of sweet air? I feel so unworthy… Yet, somehow I care. I want to listen, more than I ever have before. Maybe it’s my failure that enables me to hear…
Eventually, I get on my feet and continue my walk down the Tunnel of Memories.
“Give me a candle of the Spirit, O God, as I go down into the depths of my being. Show me the hidden things, the creatures of my dreams, the storehouses of forgotten memories and hurts. Take me down to the spring of my life, and tell me my nature and my name. Give me freedom to grow, so that I may become that self, the seed of which You planted in me at my making.
Out of the depths I cry unto you…”
~George Appleton”
It’s not dark here at all. The pictures on the walls seem luminescent, each one giving off its own light and softly illuminating the hall. The wall space surrounding each picture is carved into lovely shapes of pillars, plants, filigree and other beautiful patternwork, all perfectly suited to each adjacent picture. The chirping of my accompanying birds makes it seem altogether a pleasant place, and full of wonder.
And as I walk and ponder the memories of the past, noticing in the pictures and sculptured walls the things that shaped my thinking, I find on my tongue the form of that age-old question: “Who am I?” For who I was I am no longer, and yet who I am now must grow into who I always was before I can be who I am meant to be. Am I Diligent Warrior Maiden? Or am I Distracted, Procrastinating, Scatter-brained Maiden? Am I deep or shallow? Introverted or extroverted? Ah, but these are foolish questions! God knows my name. He knows my nature. He will mold my being and write my story. He will call my name, in His time…
I have reached the end of the tunnel. A small, dark room extends a little way beyond the lighted hall, but it appears to be a dead end. In the dark here, I now notice something in the air, something that smells vaguely familiar, but unpleasant. It slowly dawns on me that along much of my life’s journey this smell has always been wafting around and influencing many decisions (funny how a smell can do that): it is Fear. The air is rank with it. It seems to be coming from the walls. And the room is called “Tomorrow”.
And then a sound slowly makes its way to the forefront of my consciousness: a steady, far-off chipping sound on stone. I realize it has been going on ever since I began this subterranean walk. While I stand, puzzling for the cause of this sound, it dawns on me that the smell of fear is coming from the walls because the walls are made of Fear! Here at the end of The Tunnel of Memories, in the dark room of Tomorrow, I recognize the familiar walls that I have always chosen to erect and hide behind for shelter and safety—because I was always terrified of making mistakes, or failing, or getting hurt, or even just encountering new things in general…and it has indeed become dark and dank. I see the walls with new eyes. They aren’t nearly so comfortable anymore: they are blocking me in, constraining my breathing, distorting my vision. This isn’t right, but what can be done?
Suddenly a tremendous blow rams into the wall from the other side, and the deafening jolt sends me reeling to the ground, stunned and frightened, my hands covering my ears and my eyes scrunched tight.
When I open my eyes and ears again and raise my head, for a moment my breath is stolen, and my heart gives a leap.
For a jagged crack has shattered the solid stone wall, and through the cleft pours in the sweetest air you ever breathed.
The aroma of wisteria, lilacs, jasmine, and orange blossoms rides upon the breeze,
birdsong and watersong floats in on soft waves,
and soft sunrays dance on the dust swirls!
The pure, sweet, fresh air braces my lungs and I inhale deeply.
I get to my feet and stand, wide-eyed and trembling with excitement in the semi-darkness. What is out there? Something, oh, so good! There is freedom and joy and wonder out there! The Wall of Fear has received a shattering blow! I can breathe!
Yet I tremble also with dismay and uncertainty, and yes, more fear, because I now understand, to the depths of my being, that these familiar stone walls have been my safety through the years—they have, in a way defined who I am. Just because I can now name the Walls of Fear doesn’t mean that I am not still afraid. Perhaps fear itself is not even a bad thing to be completely done away with. But, I cannot remain behind the walls forever…
Nevertheless, if walls are safety, then… that means that out there things are not exactly going to be “safe”. Whatever is out there is capable of piercing me to the core. I know the stories I have heard. Dare I venture forth? What will it require of me? What evil or pain from this broken, twisted world must touch my heart when the walls aren’t there? What dreadful thing must I face fully and name, knowing that even as it cuts and deepens my grief as I fight it, it yet in the end makes me stronger, freer, and more able to love—more able to identify with others? Dare I let myself be drawn from the safety of the walls and out into the world where both love and danger are more potent?
Can Perfect Love really cast out Fear?
But, He is out there! He sent me down here to walk this Tunnel for a reason. I have arrived at this point, and it was He who dealt the blow to the wall which cracked it and let in the sunlight and sweet air.
A resolve grows in me to follow as soon as He calls. How long I still must wait I do not know, but God knows what He is doing. And as I wait, I suppose I shall wander again the halls of memories. Perhaps I shall find that song I am still waiting for.
“Safe in the deepening darkness, uncover a heart that sings.
Feet planted firmly in the ground, release the nether springs!”
Threads of Truth: 