Shedding Familiar Skin

It started with an insomnia-induced binge of Hallmark Channel programming. Then a discussion of orthodontics at dinner. Chapter two in a book on moon symbolism I’m vetting for Maggie. Decorating with scarecrows. Somebody’s instagram post on gardening. A 13th century mystic. Psalm 34. And Fleetwood Mac. 

It’s an odd collection of voices, but I’m finding when God wants to say something, He doesn’t play. Or rather, He’ll play anything and everything. On repeat. No herald is disqualified.

I don’t doubt that God sometimes speaks out loud to people. I mean, why not? That’s just not how He usually speaks to me. Truth be told, to me His voice is more likely to sound like Stevie Nicks. Maggie once asked me, “How do you know God is speaking to you?” All I could say was that you know that you know that you know. Down deep. In your surest place. You know. And even in silence, it’s as loud as any booming decibel. 

You know.

I know. From gentle persistence. In a chain of evidence from movies to moon phases to dormant harvests to “Landslide”. Messengers wooing my confidence in what I know. That what I heard in that surest place was God.

“I have a life for you beyond this. It’s waiting. But, if you want to experience it, you have to let go.”

As clear as day. Like the words of a trusted friend washing over me. Speaking to my heart, my mind, and my soul in quiet unison.

One of the lingering troubles with traumatic experiences is that they tend to define us. At least we think they do. In our own hearts and minds. That struggle. That sorrow. That thing that happened, even if beyond our control. Or that mistake. That error in judgement. That wrong turn. They somehow form a thick and scaly skin that covers our view of ourselves. Half in protection, half in resignation. They seem to mark us. 

Maybe it comes from the sheer weight and breadth of those experiences we can’t seem to see around. When coping becomes the all encompassing view. Hard to see through. Hard to get past.

Or, maybe it comes from the continual re-telling. Over and over. As we make sense of them in our own minds and with each new person or experience we encounter. Fielding the questions about the changes in our lives. Giving account for where we are and why. Bringing others along as we all seek to understand the trauma. And cope. Is it any wonder our definitions change?

For the last few weeks, my heart has been shifting and turning. Cracking, unearthing, shedding familiar skin. I’m tender and sore. And tired. But awake to something new. I’m not sure exactly what. I’m not sure why. Or why now. Maybe I’m ready? Maybe we’re all ready. But God has exposed every reminder. Every whet of the appetite. Ever so gently pulling me. Toward where He already is.

“I have a life for you beyond this. It’s waiting. If you’ll just let go.”

Of the disappointment. That cracked vision of what you thought your life would be. And with whom.

Let go.

Of your guardianship of the dead. Memories have their place, but they don’t always have to be sacred ground. He was responsible for his own life.

Let go.

Of defining yourself by sorrow. Every day you experience joy. Bubbling up and leaking out all over the place. It’s there. Be who you are now.

Let go.

Of whether your children are ok. They are. Open your eyes and loosen your grip. It’s always been My hand that’s holding them.

My hand. Holding you.

Just let go.