Pit Stop

I was in a pit on Monday. I had traveled there over the previous few days, steadily climbing down and at points being shoved down the slimy slopes by what Anne Lamott would call "the Bad Mind," and what I would call the enemy of my soul. Holding hands with my sadness and disappointment, I listened to the words that pushed me further: that this messy situation was my fault, that the path of freedom I had vied for and pursued had led us here, and that I was responsible to fix all that was impossibly wrong.

It began with fear on Friday. It turned out my teenager was imperfect, and I'd been forced to confront her about it. Not that I believed her to be perfect, but I had granted her freedom and trusted her ability to choose the right thing, and now I was staring at the evidence of otherwise. The confrontation hadn't been devastating; I approached her calmly, determined not to be condemning or shaming.  But it had put a strain on our usual us - normally a positive, affectionate camaraderie. Her eyes were like two heavy, carved wood doors, closed tight and barred shut to any approach. She could smell my fear miles away, and was having nothing to do with it.

By Saturday, I had entered into full mourning. Lying in bed late, I cried and talked with J, undamming The Tears that so rarely come. After breakfast, I settled into the big chair next to the wood stove with my laptop, and there I stayed for the rest of the day. I distracted myself with encouraging video clips and Wikipedia excursions, and the day passed in teary numbness.

Monday morning came, and I had descended so far into the darkness that I could no longer see the light at the top of the hole in which I sat. I managed to make it through the home school basics with seven year old Little J, taking to the couch under a quilt by the end of the math lesson. We finished, and I crawled back in my bed where I was tortured with the weight of responsibility and all the crap that had been shoveled down the hole onto my head over the last four days.

I couldn't sleep, but I couldn't function either. I daydreamed about jumping in the Albatross (my ridiculously oversized Maxivan) and making a run for the border, escaping this mother gig for good. I turned my phone off, the ultimate sign of my descent into isolation and despair. As the minutes ticked by, I became more and more aware of the impossibly heavy weight on my chest, until I cried out loud, "Jesus, I CAN'T carry this!"

I knew I was on the right track with this thought - something about it sounded vaguely familiar - and I sat with it, realizing that to carry this burden was literally impossible. I couldn't shoulder the responsibility of my child's decisions, her chosen path, the mountain-tops and valleys of her faith, or even our relationship. I lay in the pit, underneath many layers of lies and condemnation, knowing that I couldn't go anywhere with this on me, but with no idea how to clear it off and climb out. I turned my phone on again. A couple of minutes later, a text came in from a dear friend. I texted her that I was thinking of hitting the highway for greener pastures, and a few minutes later we were talking on the phone.

The thing I've learned about being in the pit is that sometimes a dear, trusted one is needed to dig from under the heap covering me, to show me the way out, and to remind me of truth. This may take scaling down the hole into the muck, and sitting in the dark with me. Sometimes, I am so covered up that I cannot even see where or who I am. My friend told me to start talking and as I did, she spoke truth. I can't remember what she said, and knowing it was all true, I still felt stuck.

I finally said with tears, "I don't want to do this!"
She said, "I know." She said it with so much knowing, so much understanding. And so much compassion.
"I don't want to walk this path!"
"I know."

She kept at it, knowing the pain in my heart. The more she "knew," and the more she settled there in the dark with me, the less alone I felt. The weight of pain and fear began to lift off of me as my heart felt seen and heard and known. My shoulders began to feel lighter and I realized that Jesus had all of these things on His shoulders. I managed to sit up in bed as we continued to talk, and soon I was tying my shoes, and pushing out the back door into the clear, fall light. I crunched through the fallen leaves, walking the neighborhood, and rising up and out.

I have always loved the name of God, El Roi, the God Who sees. I didn't know until recently that Hagar was the person who called Him that name. She named Him that. She was in an impossible situation for which she saw no solution, only heartache and suffering. Hagar ran from her troubles to the desert, hoping to escape what felt like a life at its end. It was there the Lord saw her, heard her misery, and lifted her up and out. He met her there at the well which she named, "the Well of the Living One who sees me." And He gave her a son whom He named "God hears," just in case she forgot.

God met me on Monday, and He showed Himself. He didn't leave me alone in my suffering, but sent one of His own to lift me up, and to remind me of His promises. He let me see the One who see me.


"She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: 'You are the God who sees me,' for she said, 'I have now seen the One who sees me.'"   Genesis 16:13