Fasting and Death and January

I broke my Facebook fast on Friday. I found out that one of my high school friends had passed away in his sleep. He was struggling with addiction, but oh he was a kind soul. He was my friend way back when it really wasn't cool to be my friend. He loved Jesus and he struggled. He struggled in a different, more apparent way, and I am heartbroken that he's gone but grateful that Jesus loves all of us, even the addict. If you think of it, please pray for his family. He has two little boys. It's insanely painful to lose your dad, no matter what age you are. So I broke my fast. I went on to pay my respects, to share some memories and a photo from 16 years ago.

January is hard. It feels so cold, and barren, and I'm wondering what in the world is going to grow from this dank, sad month. My connect group has been studying Habakkuk. It starts with a guy basically yelling at God, asking him when he is going to move. When he is going to wake up and make things better. I feel like that sometimes. I don't always see what God is doing. I guess I usually don't. It's easy to feel God when you get a shiny new baby or your husband gets a promotion or a friend tells you how great you're doing at life. But what about the years with no new baby? What about the years when you are quite literally counting the days until pay day? What about when a friend dies in their early thirties?

This is what January feels like. Cold, but no Christmas. Quiet, too quiet, wondering when the miracle will come. Wondering when the joy will show up and surprise us all.

Ann Voskamp likes to say "Eucharisteo always precedes the miracle." We are to keep giving thanks, for the hard, for the incredibly sad, for the winter, for the in between. I am the first to admit that I suck at this sometimes. I retreat, I bury myself in my books and in working out and in seeking out alone time. I want the time to pass quickly because joy is better. Joy is fun and shiny and people celebrate with you. People don't generally celebrate ordinary, sad, January days.

I'm going to try. January gives me this beautiful opportunity to change. I choose today to be grateful for the hard. For the sad quiet. For another month of no.

Spring is coming.

A Week Without It

I mentioned in my last post that for the month of January, I am staying of Facebook and trying hard to focus on the word personal. To stop the comparison and the insecurity and the madness. Ironically, this blog is automatically set to post to Facebook any time I update.

It's been a little over a week, and I've noticed some changes, as well as some habits that seem to be deeply rooted.

 This week, rather than distracting myself with what you've had for lunch, or what restaurants you and your friends are checking into, or how many more of you are pregnant, I've allowed myself to sit with this sadness. I've been really afraid to do so. But I'm learning that I can't run from it, I must face it if I am to conquer it. Ironically, this was the week to take a pregnancy test. Or three. They were all negative.

This week, I've been honest with God. Told him that I feel so very alone in my spiritual journey, and that while I know he's with me, it sure doesn't feel like it. That I feel he's too busy solving the world's problems to listen to my pleas. I've gone on bike rides. People watched. Done yoga. Found solace in cooking and cleaning and even potty training my two year old. I've avoided friends and sat with my stomach aches and wondered where God is when I can't feel him.

I've felt really, really small this week. But I'm learning that this doesn't have to be a bad thing. I'm reminded of the motto from my youth group, many years ago. My youth pastor always used to say "I must decrease so Christ may increase." This week, I've cut out a lot of the junk. The noise that wants to steal my joy. What I am left with is this empty space. I don't know what God is going to do with it. I don't know if he will heal my heart or if I will always be a little bit sad no matter how much I fight for joy. I don't know. I can simply give him this space and wait. And against my better judgement, keep hoping.