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eat the mystery
a few weeks back, i found myself re-reading Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts. Spirit-filled and poetic, her words were like water for my thirsty soul.
and recently, i find myself going back to a particular passage, one i have underlined in ink and even copied into the pages of my own journal::
“when we are despairing, we can choose to live as Israelites gathering manna. for forty long years, God’s people daily eat manna–a substance whose name literally means ‘what is it?’ hungry, they choose to gather up that which is baffling. they fill on that which has no meaning. more than 14,600 days they take their daily nourishment from that which they don’t comprehend. they find soul-filling in the inexplicable. they eat the mystery…and it is ‘like wafers of honey’ on the lips.” (page 22)
they eat the mystery. they choose to trust even when they do not understand. they open their mouths and let Him fill them with what He sees fit.
oh, that my faith were as deep! i so often resent the mystery because it doesn’t fit into my neat little boxes. i strain to understand and, if i cannot, i push it aside, choosing to gobble up instead that which i can explain–even though i know it will not satisfy.
but what if i welcome the mystery? what if i stop asking why and how and when and instead let Him fill me?
i may not always understand that which God gives me. i may not be able to explain ache and the pain, the longing, the discontent. i may not have answers for the things i have seen and experienced and walked through.but if i trust that He is good, i can trust that what comes from His hand is as well. if i choose to see His goodness and His grace instead of the circumstance or feeling, i too could eat the mystery. and it shall taste sweet.
in the book of Ezekiel, God gives him the mystery, feeds him the manna::
then i looked, and i saw a hand stretched out to me. in it was a scroll, which he unrolled before me. on both sides of it were written words of lament and mourning and woe.
and he said to me, “son of man, eat what is before you…” (2:9 – 3:1)Ezekiel’s manna came in the form of a scroll. it took on the shape of lament and mourning and woe. and God still asked him to eat of it.
so i ate it, and it tasted sweet as honey in my mouth. (3:3)
Ezekiel trusted that God was good, and so he decided that what came from Him was good as well. even a scroll filled with sorrow.
Ezekiel chose to eat the mystery, digest what he did not understand.
and God made it good.so much of this life is mystery. we walk through days and circumstance and emotion, and some of it hurts, and we cry out “why, Lord, why?”
and though i believe He has compassion, and He understands our human hearts,
i also believe there are times when the only answer He gives is to hold out His hand, offering us the scroll, the manna, that which seems to make no sense.and if we listen closely, i believe we will hear Him saying, “eat the mystery, child. trust me. i make all things good.“
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when there are no more words
as my time in Liberia comes to a close, i look back and reflect and remember. i know people back home are going to ask questions. they’re going to want stories, want to hear of my life for the past six months.
the problem is::
for the first time in a long time,
i don’t have words.maybe i haven’t fully processed all i’ve seen and heard and felt here yet. maybe once i do, the words will come.
or maybe some things are simply so full of raw…feeling that they exist outside of language.
i don’t have words to speak of grieving families who have lost loved ones too soon.
i don’t have words to speak of fear that grips in the middle of the night when you realize your neighbors are being robbed.
i don’t have words to speak of lifeless bodies in the aftermath of a car accident, bloody and broken on the road.
i don’t have words to speak of how guilty it feels to have a full stomach when so many around you go hungry.
i don’t have words to speak of children starved of affection, desperate for human contact.
i don’t have words to speak of a crippled man sleeping in the garbage and the dust, abandoned and left to die.
i don’t have words to speak of the vacant look in a child’s eye who is merely existing and doesn’t know how to thrive.
i don’t have words to speak of thirteen year old girls raped by men in their twenties.
i don’t have words for the silenced voices of so many children who have been told they’re worthless and that they don’t matter.
i don’t have words for the dozens of amputees wandering the streets, victims of a war that is over, and yet they still bear the scars.
i don’t have words for being sick in bed with malaria while at the same time realizing how many lives have been lost from the same illness–simply because they didn’t have access to the medicine.
i don’t have words to speak of children laid out on a table to be whipped or pushed up against a wall to be hit.
i don’t have words for little girls literally starving, for bony shoulders and skinny legs and how frail they feel when you hold them.
i don’t have words for an education system that has failed so many of its children, for fifteen year-olds in the fourth grade or a second grade student who can’t even write the alphabet.
i don’t have words.
i have a heart that bleeds
and tears that fall
and knots in my stomach
and hands that wring.but more than that,
i have hope.because while this place can be filled
with pain and poverty and sorrow,
i have also seen::
seen that Jesus lives here.i’ve seen Him in the prayers of a mother for her children.
i’ve seen Him in the grateful look in a dying man’s eyes.
i’ve seen Him in the healing of kids who were once frighteningly sick.
i’ve seen Him in the sheer joy of the Church praising Him.
i’ve seen Him in kind eyes and warm handshakes.
i’ve seen Him in a nation full of people looking forward to brighter tomorrows.
i’ve seen Him in students who realize they’ve been given a chance, who start dreaming for their futures.
i’ve seen Him in the whispered prayer of a teenage girl who has begun to recognize her value.
i’ve seen Him in blazing sunsets and soft sunrises, in blue sky meeting green tree meeting red earth.
i’ve seen Him in children who cling to the leg, rest heads on the shoulder, intertwine fingers with mine.
i’ve seen Him in the faces of little boys and girls who finally understand that they are loved.
i’ve seen Him in the dreams of those who want to grow up and transform their country.
i’ve seen Him in the innocence and excitement of children who, for once, are just allowed to be children.
i’ve seen Him in unity and brotherhood and acceptance.
i’ve seen Him.
i don’t have words::
but i have seen.and because of that,
i have a heart that hopes
and eyes that look up
and a growing faith
and a tongue to encourage.it is in the ugly that i have found the beautiful.
it is in despair that i have found strength.
it is in the hard places that i have found new life.i don’t have words,
but Jesus is here.and so i know that one day,
somehow,
(because of He and not i)
everything is going to be alright. -
a love letter to my body
[i’m a little late at jumping on the “love letter to my body” train that’s been taking the internet by storm lately. but better late than never, right? so here it is. and ps: more info about this project can be found on SheLoves magazine’s syncroblog.]
to the body that belongs to elena teresa ann:: this is my love letter. for you. {yes, you.}
i know, i know. why the sudden kindness?, you ask. you’re certainly not used to it. we’ve spent many, many years together, and i’ve hidden you away for most of them. i’ve covered you up–because i was ashamed. i’ve compared you to every other woman i have met–and despised you because you didn’t measure up. i’ve whispered ugly, hateful things about you–sometimes even to you.
i am sorry. it’s taken me nearly twenty-nine years to get it, but now that i do, i am so, so sorry.
i’m sorry i treated you like a curse instead of a blessing.
i’m sorry that i’ve only seen your faults and never once praised you for your beauty.
i’m sorry for feeling like you’ve let me down.
i’m sorry for wishing i could trade you in.
i’m sorry that i have never been thankful for the miracle that you are.really. you’re extraordinary, and i love you.
eyes::
i used to be disappointed by you because you’re weak. but you are not defined by your weakness. you are so much more; you have seen so much more. you have grown wide in amazement at the sight of indescribable beauty. and you’ve wept countless tears that have healed the soul from the inside out.
eyes, you are beautiful.nose::
i used to be angry with you because you’re big. i see now it’s because i was listening to a society that tells me something is beautiful only if it doesn’t take up much space. that is not true. yes, you’re big–but you’re also pretty cute. and i like your freckles, by the way.
nose, you are beautiful.hair::
i used to stare at you in the mirror and wish you were different. more…plain. easy. not the unruly mane of wild curls that you are. i’ll be honest:: i still wish that most days. but i am learning to appreciate you for the fierce beauty that you possess.
hair, you are beautiful.arms::
i used to pinch you in all the places that seemed just. too. much. i treated you as the enemy instead of being thankful for all the ways you have been my friend. you have held children:: sick children. crying children. hungry children. you have rocked them and loved them and comforted them. you have done beautiful things, arms.
you are beautiful.hips::
i used to loathe you because you’re wide. i hated you because you never let me fit into those skinny jeans, no matter how much weight i lost. but now i see that your curves are one of the most beautiful things about me. i know that you will help me give birth to my babies one day, and i will be grateful for your width.
hips, you are beautiful.tummy::
i used to cry over you because you would never become what i wanted you to be, instead of accepting you for who you are. you give the world’s best belly laughs, and you know how to appreciate a good meal shared with good friends. i love that about you. and one day, there will be a child growing inside you. and you will love him and nourish him and help him grow. thank you.
tummy, you are beautiful.legs::
i used to hide you because i didn’t like the way you dimpled in certain places, and i was embarrassed of how you looked in certain outfits. that was unkind of me, and i am sorry. you are so important to me, legs. you have enabled me to walk down roads that many others have not, and to do it with strength and grace.
legs, you are beautiful.all of you, every single piece of you, is beautiful.
because you were knit together by a wonderful Creator who doesn’t make mistakes.
and yes, you will grow old and one day return to the dust.but i am determined that, when you do, it will have been after a life of living in peace with the soul that inhabited you.