Remember that rope I was talking about--the frayed, slender one I was holding onto the end of for dear life?
It snapped last week.
And I fell. Not far, because I was pretty much at the bottom of things as it was, but the sudden shock of slamming into a hard surface knocked the wind out of me.
So all last weekend I've been just laying there, on the bottom, not doing anything. There's a sort of peace in knowing you've hit the bottom (even if it turns out to be a false bottom later on), a comfort in knowing at least you got somewhere. It's kinda quiet down here, a bit cold to be sure, but at least I can stop the death grip on a rope that is never going to last. Who would have thought rock bottom would be sorta peaceful?
I'm still struggling with God, or rather, the apparent absence of him. I know he's here, somewhere, because this isn't quite hell. But I don't know where he is, and I'm worn out from searching. So I'm just going to sit here on the bottom for a while, rest up, wait. Give him a chance to find me.
I've spent a lot of time in the last week journaling (for those who know me, you know I only journal when things are really bleak, and that when I journal, I get even bleaker--it's not pretty). And in those pages I've spilled the darkest fears and accusations. I'm glad God is big enough and strong enough to handle them, because they are all I have right now.
And there's a song going through my head (and maybe, if it's not frozen solid, my heart, I'm not sure). It's called Hallelujah (sung by k.d. lang, of all people), (yes, I get the irony, thank you). The lyrics include, "Love is not a victory march / It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah." And later, "It’s not a cry that you hear at night /It’s not somebody who’s seen in the light /It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah."
Right now, the most I can offer is a cold and broken hallelujah. I hope it's enough.