Hearing from me, hearing from God

Someone reminded me a few weeks ago that it's been a long time since I posted here. Part of that may be that it's just really hard to concentrate on what I want to say when there are three kids and two dogs who are all constantly vying for my attention. (one dog barks incessantly - that's the one Adam calls "Toad;" the other one is tall enough to walk under my arm as I type and use her head to shove my arm upward away from the keyboard. I'd take it as a subtle hint that I'd been online too long, but she starts it as soon as I sit down at the computer).

The other part of my absence might also just be that things haven't changed. For the better, at any rate. My faith feels lost; the pain does not. I used to wonder how long I could continue to wing my prayers upward, prayers for pain relief, prayers for energy, prayers for patience. Now I just don't pray.

It's odd to me, though, that the weaker my faith has become, the stronger my honesty has been. I find myself being truthful at the oddest times. I think it all started when I was on my way out the door for our church's women's retreat. I really didn't want to go...my faith was already on life support at that point. Adam forced me out the door, and before he shut it, he said, "And don't lie. When people ask you how you're doing, don't lie."

Because I usually do. I usually say I'm fine or smile and say, "Good." But I'm not. I'm not fine, things aren't good. I don't pray, because I just don't think God cares. I don't tell people that I'll pray for them because I don't want to be a liar or a hypocrite. I don't spend time in God's Word because I don't find any hope there.

A dear friend wrote me an email a few days ago. It took me a while, but I finally responded and was pretty honest in my assessment of how things were going. She wrote back today urging me not to give up, not to stiff-arm God. Rely on Him, find hope in Him, she urged. I haven't written her back yet because the only response I have is that I think it's just too late for me.

I've been reading a book for the past few days. It's one of Jodi Picoult's books. I love her writing...you cannot skip a sentence or even a word, because every word, every sentence has meaning. I love authors who don't waste words, and she is one.

At any rate, in this book, the mother goes to her daughter's school because the daughter has had an incident for which the teacher has called home. The daughter is disabled, suffering from a genetic mutation that causes her bones to be extremely fragile, and the family is split on whether the mother should be suing her OB for not identifying the disability earlier in the pregnancy and giving the mother the option of terminating the pregnancy. (all background to establish the amount of strife and heartache present in the family).

The teacher explains that some of the students were playing house at school. Two of the students were role-playing the mom and dad and they wanted the daughter (who was tiny in size because of her disability) to play the baby. The daughter was upset about being labeled a baby and had an outburst. Explaining the situation to her mother, the daughter says,"I didn't want to be the baby. I wanted to be the dad."

Confused, the mother asks, "The dad? How come you didn't want to be the mom?"

"Because moms go into the bathroom and cry and turn on the water so no one can hear them."
"Handle With Care"
Jodi Picoult
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yes, some of us do. And some of us just die quietly inside and hope that no one can tell.