I feel a shift in the church, friends. In the wider Christian community. Not surprising, we are, despite distance and creed, One. This shift, its stronger than I’d wanted to believe; because change is scary, and I’m so rarely brave. This shift is not limited to specific denominations or favoured generations, it’s simply a call to dance; to waltz, clumsily to the beat of the Father’s heart. It’s nothing new; in fact it’s ancient. But this shift is a beckoning back to the basics; to the awkward simplicity of breathtaking love. And it’s stirred a vibrant vision in me:
I’m so tired.
Today has been yuck and messy.
Amid the blah there was brief respite provided by a conversation with my dad… but even then, I faked it a little; laughing when I wanted to cry, playing the fool because ‘backing myself’ seemed a little too committal in my fragile state. I ask you not read that as a reflection on him- it’s not! My dad is great. It’s just that I’m not. Not today.
Today is just hard, and I’m tired.
**Trigger Warning: This post contains references to death/suicide, and may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Please exercise wisdom and self-care before choosing to proceed.
Death was always an abstract-ish concept that was far removed and mostly hidden from me as a child. I suspect growing up in the church and being told that I would have “eternal life and never die” added to this abstract confusion. I grasp the concept now, but you can see how this may be a tricky notion for a small child to get their head around. I deem it, therefore, not overly helpful in my formative years.
*NB The ‘real stuff’ is a little further down the page- I’ll even throw in a heading so you know where to start (I’m super generous like that), so feel free to skip this section if you’re easily bored by navel-gazing re-introductions.
So, I’ve been in what I’m describing as an ‘Ecclesiastical’ funk. And not ecclesiastical as in the dictionary definition- that would be too ‘mainstream’, I talking more the general existential angst that permeates the biblical book of Ecclesiastes. You know, the whole “what is even the point?” deal. This is my funk. Nothing is new under the sun. Nothing will be said that hasn’t been said before. Consonants may be slightly rearranged, inflections added, but thoughts are rarely new.
I feel as if my writing is just noise, merely an addition to the already cacophonous internet. There are plenty who say what I say, and execute it with a written cadence and elegance I lack. The thing is; I’m actually okay with it. Really, truly okay. So feel free to put the finger violins and feigned sympathy away. I’m not sad. I’m not wallowing in self pity, I simply chose to remove myself from what I felt was no longer serving a purpose… that and writer’s block. It’s easy to take the self-care, community-conscious high ground when your creative juices have soured, or straight up stagnated! But then a thing happened…
In totally un-Bek form (*chokes on own sarcasm) it takes the aftermath of a historical event that has no immediate or direct impact on me (this really isn’t true, think The Butterfly Effect), to bring me out of my six month blogging hiatus (please let the record show that my phone just autocorrected ‘six month hiatus’ to: ‘mystic hiatus’- which sounds far more interesting, spiritual and less self-indulgent than the lazy self-induced, self-conscious apathy that’s actually been occurring. Count the ‘selfs’. So much maturing yet to occur *sigh). Because yeah, I have an opinion on this. Ha! On everything really. And hey, prophetic declarations are being made, so that’s practically a personal invitation to speak up…right?
This morning I desired nothing more than deep fried, hashed up potatoes to start my day. These I fantasised, would be delivered under golden arches, in a brown paper bag by an anonymous face. Dispensed into my outstretched hand as I sat in the safety of my vehicle- oh the irony of deeming my car to be safe, only seven days after I was involved in a minor car accident (I’m good y’all, seriously, the car…eh…not so much).
Funny how the things we view as ‘safe’, or familiar, can oft house the most harm.
Still, I perceived my car to be at least emotionally safe, because there in its claustrophobic confines, I could host a casual paper napkin dinner party with Shame, later hiding all evidence, so no one ever need know, unless I chose to divulge.